Perspectives
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: : Told from the viewpoints of Dean, Sam and Bobby, this tale is about choices, none of them easy and how those same choices can carry into the future. Sometimes all you can do is walk away, even when everything within you tells you not to.
1. Chapter 1

**Fic title: Perspectives  
Author name: PhoenixDragon/PhoenixDragonDreamer  
Artist name: chosenfire28  
Genre: **Gen**  
Rating: **R**  
Word count: **114**,**907**  
Warnings/Spoilers: AU, Dark!Fic, Language, Violence, Torture, Heavy Angst  
A/N: **This fic would not have been possible without the support of my wonderful husband and my awesome Friends (at work, at home and at LJ!) cheering me on - thanks guys, I can never show enough love! This fic was inspired by the awesome music/vids that have awed and moved me over the last few months - so big thanks to Loki, LSketch42, Kahesha, DragonFly and Thandie! This fiction would not have been possible (even with all the love and support) if not for my fantastic beta and friend rinkle! Honey, I would have been lost in Nowhere without you! That's just facts *HUGS*. So any screw-ups you see are mine and mine alone. That being said, I hope you enjoy - and if you do, give a nod to all these wonderful people listed here. (Written for spn_j2_bigbang.) You can find links for the Masterpost, Artwork and Soundtrack at my Livejournal - link is listed in my Profile**  
Summary: **Set AU from S4.04 'Metamorphosis', this is a what-if based on Dean's discovery of Sam's secret mere minutes after coming back from the past:_ Told from the viewpoints of Dean, Sam and Bobby, this tale is about choices, none of them easy and how those same choices can carry into the future.  
Sometimes all you _can_ do is walk away, even when everything within you tells you not to. Dean thinks it will be simple, but one phone call from Bobby leads to a case that just may get him caught - and the hunt for Dean Winchester is on.  
Dean finds a new friend and ally, while Sam discovers what it is to truly be left behind as he and Bobby race against the clock to find his brother before he disappears forever. Armed with a location, the Impala, determination and one Angel of the Lord - will they get to Dean before he can become so much shadow and mist? Or will the secrets and lies be all that Sam and Bobby are left with in the end?_  
**Disclaimer: Not mine, nope! All the wishing and pleading with the PTB have not changed this. So please no sue - just having fun here!**

**Perspectives**

**Chapter One**

**Part One**

**'Blue on Black'**

_**You turned and you ran, oh yeah - Oh, slipped right from my hands -**_** Kenny Wayne Shepherd**

**4:41AM**

He couldn't fix this.

He took one look at the scene before him, the chick with black hair from the hotel room (was it only a few weeks ago?) and Sammy, _his_ Sammy, doing something that wasn't natural, wasn't _right_, and it went so far beyond psychic flashes that it wasn't funny. He had lied. He had lied with a straight face and there wasn't the barest flicker that he had been lying. It had only been a few months for Sam, for Dean it had been a lifetime (not that he'd ever let Sammy know, know how much was creeping back in, know what a horror, what a parody of himself he had become) – but as he looked into that room, as he looked on how his brother had chosen to fight, chosen to remember him, all he could feel was sick.

This was beyond anything he could cope with – and that right there left him more miserable than before. Was the Other Dean, the Dean from Before stronger? Would he have been able to handle this? He didn't know – a lifetime spanned the distance between the two of them. One that was so glaringly obvious, that Sam – his baby brother – had noticed and had lied. Lied and used what Dean knew of him against him, like a weapon, like a door. He had shut Dean out. He was so busy fighting for Dean he had forgotten about how to fight alongside him – and it was all because of that black-haired bitch. He was sure of it.

He swallowed thickly against the rage and hatred that had so become a part of him lately – forced it down, forced it away – until all that was left was a bone deep weariness. Weary, weak and sick. He found that he had closed his eyes against what he had brought upon them, as he struggled with his inner self - and made himself open them again –

To see what his Sammy had become.

The triumph, sheer joy and arrogance that played across Sam's face was a horror all of its own. This person, this man, was unknown to him. He had thought it was just his imagination, the distance that had come between them, but this…this was not his imagination, this was not a nightmare come to life. This…this was real.

He watched, frozen, as Sam pulled thick black smoke from the man's mouth, the leftovers of the demon falling to sizzle at the stranger's feet, and Dean pondered how many had received this fate. How many had come to torture him afterwards? (And from a vague, half-formed thought) how many had he tortured? He didn't know – he didn't want to know, and that right there showed him how behind, how weak, how useless he had become in the face of life itself. He was galvanized by his own humanity and it ate at him in a way none of his failures before ever had.

He didn't know how anymore.

It had all been for nothing.

This – _this_ is what Castiel wanted him to see? To have what he once was, what Sam once was, rubbed coldly into his face? To have his hope, his love for his brother scraped raw and bleeding across the chasm of years?

He wiped his hand across his mouth as if trying to seal it all in, the scream of anger, the urge to bawl like a child, and straightened his shoulders. He had to know – he had to know if he was nothing now, if what they were, what they had been – was irreparable. No matter what, no matter how many years or months or weeks spun out between them, he knew that Sam's face would tell him everything...would tell him where in Sam's life he was now relegated.

He pulled away from the window, the mesh a barrier, a metaphor you might say for what was happening between them, and prepared to play the big brother card, once simple and second nature, now old, rusty and half-forgotten in some strange way from an odd type of disuse, like his soul hadn't forgotten the years he spent downstairs. He wished mightily that it could, that he could erase whatever taint he carried that alienated him from his brother – that made Sam lie to him, deceive him. Had Sam even missed him? Or had he forgotten him, even as Dean struggled to remember his brother while in The Pit. These and other half-formed question would be answered in mere moments – Sam would tell him without saying a word at all. So here Dean would be using what he knew of him against his own brother. How low he had sunk, that he would rail against his own brother, against fate for what he was now about to do. How was he any different? How was Sam any worse? Because he had a feeling that he was way worse than Sam could ever be – that somehow, he had failed them both in the worst way possible. But this was not to be dealt with now. Sam…Sam was what – who – had to be dealt with. It all came down to him this time.

He put on his game-face as he swung the door open, bullying past the threshold with an outraged bravado he didn't really feel – and his eyes locked with Sam's. Time seemed to stop – to stretch in on itself and expand beyond its own borders to hold that moment – the moment when he discovered just how useless, how worthless, how very detrimental he really was. So many emotions/thoughts/feelings flickered over Sam's features when he looked up and realized it was Dean. But the most prominent were the most important...and what was missing was even more important than that. In those brief seconds that lasted forever in Dean's mind, he _saw_. Startled irritation, cold rage, recognition, weariness, mild disgust and…dismissal – before Sam's features closed in on themselves to plain stark surprised and…feigned guilt. There was no remorse, no apology in those eyes, just calculating assessment and endless, endless cold. Those eyes still told all – and they told Dean that though this was not the way Sam wanted him to find out – now that he had, Sam didn't care. That Dean was a burden, a stranger and a weight upon Sam and all that he held as true now shone for mere milliseconds before they collapsed into that horrible mask of Sammy – _his_ Sammy. But he could feel, see that this alien being, this person, looked like his Sammy, but he really, really wasn't. Not anymore, not if he ever was.

'_Just how sure are you that what you brought back was pure, one hundred percent Sam?'_

A chill came over Dean when he realized that he had never really contemplated that question – that he had fended it off and buried it along with all the other awful questions, wants and needs that had rose up to choke him over his years on Earth. He had waved it away – ignored it…and now that ignorance was coming back to haunt him. He had dismissed it as simply nothing more than another demonic taunt – and now? Now _he_ was dismissed…simple as that really.

How long had it been like this? Was it gradual, or sudden? How many lies, secrets, and betrayals lay between them? That question circled his head like a vulture, just waiting for his soul to fall down dead all over again so it could pick at the rotting carcass that was left of what he had once been.

_How sure?_

The question was asked several decades ago in his foggy reckoning, but really had it only been a year and a half here? Time had ceased having meaning long ago in that vague, half-remembered wasteland of his waking dreams – but that idea bothered him, plagued him as he stared across the short distance of the room into the eyes of a man he once carried out of a burning house. Was he truly his Sam? Or had the Other Dean, the Dean from Before, missed what was staring right at him for over a year before he died?

He didn't have a solution – and that, as much as what stared back at him from across that little space of a room, was all the answer he needed.

He barely took time to notice the look exchanged between Sam and the black-haired girl that was being worn by Ruby (yet another lie there) – or hell, maybe it was some other demonic sonuvabitch, who knew – either way a lie of omission was still a lie.

The quick glance between the two of them was a punch in the gut, a fresh sorrow all at once. It was a sudden communication, done without thought or much effort – the kind of look he and Sam had leveled at each other many a time in that era relegated to Once and Long Ago. It was a secret connection that told all in less time than it took to form thought – and the look was a familiar one, one that he knew so well it only took seconds to decode. 'How should we handle this? Have you got it – or should I take care of it?' – and he could actually hear the sound of his own heart breaking.

Between his own doubts, this person that was Not Sam and that Look that was only done amongst loved ones – amongst family – he knew he was finished. He had been replaced – and quite handily too it seemed by the very demon (he was quite sure) that had lied to Sam about saving him and yet had somehow wormed right back into his good graces for all of that. And that above all, that very fact told him he was nothing, he was _less_ than nothing. He had fulfilled his purpose – and now even his purpose was gone.

He could see himself striding across the room, demanding answers, getting in their faces and bullying the truth of what he was seeing out of them. Maybe even storming off and making Sam come to him, wheedling and applying his patented kicked-puppy look before explaining it all away – getting back on Dean's good side much the way his demonic whore probably had, silver tongue plying more lies on top of lies until what was left of the Now Dean was lost, buried beneath the weight of his own failures and lack of insight into the present.

He had no strength for it, no stomach for it. He couldn't…he just couldn't. And the weight of that particular failure sat heavily in his chest, making it hard to breathe or even think. He could do that – just get in the mix and be the Before Dean and push and pull until Sam gave – or he gave, which was more likely, but…not today, not now – maybe not ever. He felt drained, tired and nauseated, the gray maelstrom of hopelessness and loss eating him from the inside out, his lips numb and unable to speak to even save himself from what he was going to do. He could have fixed this. He knew that once, he could have, but that was Before Dean…he was just – he was a ghost.

He turned and walked away, deaf and unfeeling to Sam's call behind his back. All he felt, all he heard was the hesitation and resigned disgust that carried in his (brother's?) voice, that tired effort to draw him back in – though he could feel Sam's heart wasn't in it.

And with that, he walked faster, getting into the car that was once his home, but now only felt like so much cold steel and glass encased around him. He didn't know how to handle that either, so he just put the vehicle in drive and followed the road back to the hotel, his mind already far away from him and as unreachable as the Before Dean - as unreachable as the sibling he had raised and loved.

He got to the hotel faster than he'd thought he would, noting briefly that Castiel was no longer there, and while he felt no surprise, it only served to make him feel more cold and alone.

Even Cas knew he was a lost cause.

He packed quickly, noting once more how sparse and few his belongings had become in the time he had been gone and made his way back to the Impala, hesitating as he came to her driver's side door, his mind reaching, stretching for why he felt compelled to take the vehicle. Habit? That was almost a laugh – he had a feeling that this particular habit had long burned away in the fires of The Pit. He felt a strange tugging, an urge to get inside and take comfort in what was once his home – but he knew it wouldn't be home again, not without Sammy. Even his beloved car, his refuge and his solace outside of his flesh and blood family was foreign to him now – the odd vertigo of metal and glass boxing him in, stopping him from breathing or even _being_ overcame his senses once more and he knew that even she was far from him now. So he turned back to the hotel room and gently, almost reverently, laid her keys upon the table near the door, his heart clenching at the loss of them for a mere moment before he closed the door behind him, his own key to the room now locked inside to prevent the temptation of the familiar – to stop him from succumbing to his own dire weaknesses.

So far, his brother hadn't shown. He didn't know if he ever would – but he didn't think he could take the pain of waiting, of finding out how little he meant if he lingered and Sam never came. And even if Sam was right on his heels, he knew that he could never face him and win against that pull of family, of want and need that had always burned so hot and bright within that it had blinded him for so long against himself. He knew that if Sam did come, if he did confront him, it would be out of his own sense of the familiar – and it would be driven by the cold calculation that he had seen in those eyes (now the eyes of a stranger ) whether their owner was aware of it or not. Best to break ties now and hope that Sam would see that awfulness in the mirror all on his own. If not…well, fuck the world anyhow, right? How had the world ever helped the Winchesters?

It wasn't that hard to walk away in the end, to fade into the chilled fog that had fallen over the small city in the wee hours – all you had to do was become what you are – Nothing – and it was the easiest thing in the world.

_'_Have you told Dean yet?_' Was one of the first things Ruby said to him when he climbed into the passenger seat of her car - and it was one of the first things that popped into his conscious mind when Dean burst into the room and stopped dead with that...that_ look _- on his face._

_The next thought hot on the heels of that one was a clear and resounding '_Aw, FUCK_.'_

**0-0-0**

**03:56am**

"I'm tellin' ya, Sam - you need to say something to him, or -"

"Or what? You'll do it?" He snorted derisively and swiped a hand over his eyes. Between the two of them - even while Dean slept the longest and hardest, whereas Sam hardly slept at all - he wondered who was more rested. He felt like shit nine times out of ten - but Dean...

He shook his head and shrugged an apology in Ruby's direction, voice low as he motioned her to start the car. "Sorry, ahhhh...it's been a long day."

"It's okay, Sam - I just...I worry about you, you know? Are you getting enough sleep?"

He almost laughed at that, but wound up shaking his head, throwing a weak smile at her even as he straightened his shoulders and leaned back - like looking awake would equal feeling awake.

"I'm - I'm good. I'm more worried about Dean - asshole sleeps all the time, but...I swear he's just unconscious - not asleep - annnd I'm probably making no sense." He shrugged again and leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window, the urge to close his eyes and doze even if only for a moment, so overwhelming he could feel the dreams fighting at the edges of his mind to reach out and overtake him. He almost missed Ruby's soft reply and in retrospect, kinda wished he had.

"No - makes a lot of sense. After you spend some time in Hell - sleep just...it's not a refuge - more like an escape. And well...it doesn't do you alot of good in the long run." She bit her lip, and fell quiet for a moment, leaving Sam reeling in the passenger seat from the little tidbit she'd chosen to share. Some of it from the fact she _had_ chosen to share. Ruby wasn't what you'd call the most forthcoming of creatures - but that wasn't all of it. Sam was left with quite a few of his own nightmares about what Dean had gone through. He didn't think he could handle knowing much beyond that though, what his imagination conjured up was bad enough - but even he knew, it probably paled in comparison to the real thing.

He found he was staring at her, through her - and turned away with an embarrassed cough, noting her discomfort in the slight tilt of her right shoulder, her dark hair swaying forward to hide her eyes. In times like this, at moments like this, he saw her as a person, not as a demon and for some odd reason that made him even more uncomfortable. She wasn't sexy, she wasn't pretty in those moments - hell, he knew she wasn't even a _girl_, really - but sometimes he saw her as she might have been once and that scared him more than Lillith and all the Hounds of Hell.

"So! Um..." he began, the sense of awkwardness filling the car and making it hard - harder - to think than usual.

"I'm sorry," she started, words tripping up over his and snapping him back to attention. He glanced at her and she seemed to shrink in her seat, top teeth worrying at her lip as she spared a glance at him through the fall of her hair before snapping her eyes back to the windshield as though burnt, a small smile tugging at her mouth even as her eyes bled apologies from her face. "I...I didn't think. I shouldn't have mentioned anything. I know...I know what happened to Dean is still painful for you."

Like it wasn't painful to Dean.

Her almost flippant choice of words irked him, even as she sounded remorseful for the subject matter. _'What happened to Dean'_ - like it was a car accident, or a bout with the flu or any other teeny insignificant misfortune that happened to all of humankind - except for him and his brother.

Like Hell was a bad vacation choice.

He went to snap at her, the snide, snarling words like sharp edges in his mouth just waiting to be spit into her face. He caught himself with effort and swallowed back the sudden bite of anger, surprised and a little uneasy at how quick and volatile his temper was nowadays. He blew off the niggling bad feeling that accompanied the jolt of awareness into himself and gave her a rueful grin, hoping she didn't see how her words had affected him.

"It's uhh, it's okay, Ruby - just...can we get some coffee or something? Before we do this?" He rubbed his fingers into his eyes, dreading the headache he was bound to be sporting for the rest of the day. What they did was good - great, even - but there was always a price attached. You think he would have learned that by now.

She looked thrown by the change in subject, but otherwise none the wiser to his flare of anger. She shrugged, tossing her hair out of her face as the tension in the car throttled back a few notches, a small relieved smile sitting cosily on her lips. "Coffee. No problem - there's a gas station on the way, we'll stop there."

She looked at him again, eyes appraising now as if she could penetrate his soul with her gaze and he fought the urge to shudder in disgust at the idea. He looked back, unsure of what she was looking for, wishing that he'd had just a little more sleep - then maybe everything wouldn't be so damned _fuzzy_ around the edges.

"Will you, uhhh...need anything-"

"Yeah!" Too quickly. He flashed his teeth in a parody of a smile, the feeling of wrong and awkward falling back over him when he thought about what she was referring to. The fact that it helped him to do this was horrifying. But the thought that he was coming to need it was worse and not just because it made it easier to work his mojo - but because it made things...easier. He swallowed in effort, his mouth suddenly dry and too small with the taste-memory of blood. "Yeah - I need less of it, but it still...gets the cylinders firing, you know?"

For a moment her answering smile seemed sly...secretive and ominous, but then he blinked and it was just Ruby - Ruby driving in the middle of the night with him to go fight an evil bastard from The Pit. Just like not-so-old times.

God, he needed more sleep.

He sighed and wrapped his coat tighter around his torso, a sudden chill catching him off guard even as the heat blasted at him from the dash. It seemed that he was always cold here of late. He could never seem to get warm and on the heels of that perpetual half-thought, his longing for Dean, the Impala and her old Army blanket that always lay crumpled in the backseat would wash over him - the nostalgia a comfort as well as a burden on his spirit. It amazed him that all he had wanted was his brother back for those four long summer months (that in reality were more like four long years) - he worked so hard to hone his powers, spending hours upon hours practicing even as his head felt like it was going to explode at any moment - just so he could march into Hell and save his brother. He'd tried everything else, he had even tried giving up, but the drive, the need was there - so he practiced, he dealt with the icepick agony of each attempt and thrilled in his own progress. Yet here he was, driving away from the very person he had wanted back so badly, the brother he worked so hard to save. He had failed him and had changed so drastically during those few short months that he was scared that he wasn't even the brother that Dean would recognize.

Yet, he knew how important his work was to himself, to everyone. He hated to leave Dean behind, to lie to him just so he could to do the things he needed to do - things he could never tell him about. He came so far - but now he was so far away from who he _had_ been, the sibling Dean had known and loved - and all that left him with was work, longing and fear. He wanted to tell him, to show him how he could make the world a better place, how he was going to save him before that asshole angel finally stepped up to the plate (too late, he often feared) and took that task, that promise away from him. He wanted to tell him so bad he'd even rehearsed it over and over again in his head, preparing himself for that day when it all came spilling out - though at the end of the day, all he could see in his imaginings was the fear, the horror and anger that would be in his brother's eyes.

If he thought visions were fucking scary, he'd blow his cork over this shit.

"Okay - we'll do that before we get started, " she replied.

"Cool...coffee first." _Like I'm not fucking jonesing for a hit of blood or anything..._

They drove in silence, the heat and motion of the moving car a soothing balm to his tired body and he found himself drifting, Ruby, Dean and The Job at the edges of his awareness as his mind tried to tilt towards that bliss known as sleep. He snapped out of his doze a scant few minutes later, muzzily surprised that the car was stopped, even as Ruby sat back down in the driver's seat - his coffee (two creams, ten sugars and a smattering of hazelnut flavoring) held in her outstretched hand.

He yawned and crimped his body around in the small confines of the Mustang's interior, trying to work the cramps out of his limbs as he practically snatched the coffee out of her hands, subduing his grateful whine into a more coherent 'Thanks' - his cold fingers wrapping around the styrofoam in an instinctual search for heat, the smell of it almost enough to make him feel awake and functioning again.

Almost.

"How much longer?" he yawned, taking a tentative sip of the boiling hot brew.

Ruby looked at him almost wistfully, her eyes trailing from the coffee cup to his face, a half smile quirking her full lips.

"Sorry - sometimes, I think I almost miss being tired. The _feeling_ that is..."

"Nahh, it's over-rated."

"About ten more minutes, give or take." In answer to his question. "I really hope this guy has a bead on Lillith, Sam - bitch is getting harder and harder to pin down."

"Shit, I just hope I'm ready for her when it's time to take her on," he answered, feeling more awake and easier in his own bones. Amazing what a quick car nap and some cheap, boiled muck from the local Stop'N'Rob will do for you.

Ruby's look was slightly unsettling as she threw the car into gear, mostly because he couldn't identify it before it shifted away from her features into something more recognizable - that perpetual smugness that used to drive Dean straight up the fucking wall.

"You'll be ready." She sounded so sure that it sent another wave of uneasiness crashing towards him, her tone more than her words being what bothered him. Before he could pin-point it though, she shrugged it off and snapped on the radio with a mischievous grin. "Now that you're awake..."

He grinned back at her, suddenly feeling better than he had in quite a few days. The coffee was good (for gas station coffee), the car was warm and he was semi-awake, getting ready to do something that both felt good _and_ was good for mankind - and even though the song on the radio sucked balls, all was right with the world. Until she had to open her fat mouth.

"I said it once, Sam and I'll say it again - you really need to tell your brother what's going on. Before he finds out for himself."

"Actually, you've said it a million times, but the answer is still the same. I'll do it when I'm ready. Besides, I've covered my tracks - he'll never figure it out," _the way he is now,_ "you worry too much."

"Okay, Sam...but if this blows up in your face-"

"You'll get a chance to say I told you so, even as I grovel at Dean's feet - there, happy?" He tried to keep it light, but even he could hear the edge in his voice that screamed 'drop it'. Truth be told, he was scared Dean would find out - but he was more afraid of telling him. Caught between a rock and a hard place on this one. He just needed time - time to figure out he how he was gonna do it, cause he knew Ruby was right. Eventually Dean would find out and all Hell would break loose when he did.

Just a little more time...

"I just hope I never have that chance to say 'I told you so'," was all she replied, her tone and manner neutral and almost bored.

Ironic that just a mere half an hour later, these would be the details that would haunt him as Dean walked away - all the time in the world gone and no good answers for anyone, much less his own brother.

**0-0-0**

_It's amazing the things you think about when your guard is down and your brain is left to spin on its own axis. _

_When Jess died and he was standing at her funeral, turned slightly away from her coffin with stiff legs, exhaustion oozing from every pore, face and chest aching from the weight of tears spent and tears to come, the only thing he could think was, '_I'm going to miss sleeping on the same bed every day._'_

_It was an off thought - totally inappropriate and one that came back to bother him when he was feeling his most tired and obsessive._

_But as Dean walked away and after he'd had his '_Aww, FUCK_.' moment - the next whisper on the heels of that was '_Wonder if I was heavy as a baby.'

_And then_, 'I wonder if I can sleep on the same bed again._'_

_But he never really took time to examine those thoughts too closely. It would twist up in his mind in the wee hours after Dean was long gone, and exhaustion was his only companion - but he would shove it away, push it back down deep where it had come from, afraid that looking at it, thinking it through would mean that Dean, too, was dead. That he was never coming back._

_And that was just not possible._

**0-0-0**

**04:35AM**

Breathe, breathe...

"Just concentrate Sam, you've got it - you've got him -" Ruby soothed, as he pushed and pulled against the power that tried to dominate him even as he wrestled to control it, to bend it to his will. It was like trying to hold a bullshark on a leash - and it took every ounce of strength to not buckle under the weight of it.

It was wonderful, this feeling - it was terrible, too. The power cascaded through his mind like cool, silver smoke - encompassing his every thought, his every breath, until all that existed was him and It - and when he could control It...well, there was no description for this. For any of it. It felt good, even as his stomach churned in nausea. It was ecstasy even as his head tried to split apart from the effort it took to harness and focus the power. No, there was no description for it. It just was -

And he didn't know if he found that terrifying or liberating.

He reached out, feeling the cool rushing of this power from nowhere stretching out across the few feet from him to their captive, those few yards seeming more like thousands of miles as he tried to stop the feeling/thing/power inside from leaping out and _eating_ the creature in front of him. Too much would kill the host and too little...too little meant that the demon had won - and there was no way that was going to happen. He'd fought too hard, too long and had given away too much of himself to let that happen.

It sensed his hesitation, his struggle, and laughed, spitting words that had no meaning, hateful sentences that fell on deaf and uncomprehending ears as he kept pushing out, the silvery smoke latching onto the dark thing within the man's body, gripping it with liquid ice claws. He could feel it thrash within his grasp and he tightened down, trying to force it still so he could maintain his firm, yet precarious hold. He could almost taste the fear and nervous anger that thrummed through the demon, it was a metallic, sour type of taste - almost like sweat and blood - and his concentration slipped a notch as his headache spiked to new levels of agony. It gibbered and laughed, the mirth overriding the fear that sang within it for a mere moment, the sensation like ripples of black steel against the silvery claw embedded in the demon's essence and Sam tightened down again, redoubling his efforts even as Ruby' gaze lasered across him, silently urging him on.

He acknowledged her with a minute nod and clamped down on his will, internally planting his feet to wrench the beast up and out of his host, feeling it come loose with an almost surprised slide, the fear it harboured moments before becoming a sulphorous stench of pure terror as it realized it was, indeed, being removed. He could feel it scrabbling for purchase inside its host, half-formed thoughts sliding up and over to skim Sam's mind as surprise and terror gave way to full-blown panic, its efforts to reattach itself becoming wild and unwieldy, a drowning man trying to draw in air where there was only water. Unfortunately for the demon, its wild floundering only made it easier to grasp, the silvery claw/smoke plunging deep as it fumbled frantically inside its host, the man underneath slowly becoming aware as he began to choke on the thick, oily substance that was the embodiment of the parasite he housed.

He coughed, retching up the demon as the bolt of Sam's will grabbed for more, the slide of it easier now that the main body was being rejected - the host's thoughts now overriding and clashing with the demon's howls of pain and anger - crashing into Sam and sending him staggering mentally even as he widened his stance, anchoring his feet as if that would still his mind. He pushed past the cacophony of white noise that shrouded the possessed mind, trying to weave his way fully around the demonic entity while steering clear of the host himself - a major feat that he failed at the first few attempts. The lingering memories from those catastrophic and/or aborted tries spurred him to delicacy even as he released a little more power, the fragile balance of control over the ability he wielded, his hold of the invader and his dance around the tripwire webbing of the man who had the misfortune to be there for it all, was almost enough to tip him into the grey haze that threatened his inner vision - and that would be a disaster for all three of them (though less so for the fucker riding shotgun in this poor bastard's body.)

The demon had abandoned all pretense of strength for taunts and insults, his outrage and sheer terror giving him one final adrenaline fueled burst of energy, just enough for him to fight back with a vengeance, intent on staying where he was anchored - or tear the still living man to shreds before he was sent back to whatever side of Hell he'd come oozing out of. It was pure fight or flight instinct, one that seemed to linger even after all else was burned away within the fires of The Pit, but it was also expected, calculated for even - and Sam felt a smile twitch at the corners of his mouth as he used the creature's predictability to his advantage. He abandoned the silvery claw, letting the demon slide through a fraction - just enough so that it felt it was winning. He could sense when it's last remaining reserves had ebbed and stretched his powers out into a web, relaxing into the feeling as the cool strands became that web before flaring into a net of sorts, encompassing and trapping the straining, quivery mass of black, electric sludge that was the demon, barely giving it seconds to realize what was happening before he wrapped it up completely, severing all ties to its host body. It shrieked and struggled, its cries faintly muted within Sam's mind - his power smothering it, binding it tight as he drew it up and out of the body, sizzling pieces of it landing on the concrete floor between the man's feet.

The host himself was quiet inside, worrisome but not enough to halt Sam from what he was doing. He hoped the man (Ronald? Was that his name?) was okay, but if he left his work half done...well, it was best to not think about such things. That, too, had happened once before - and once was more than enough. The hard part was over, the majority of the demon was gone - back to the Hole that had spawned it - and all that was left was a bit of cleanup, checking (Ron?) over and then getting him to some proper medical help. If he survived that is.

Sam desperately hoped that he would survive.

But no good would come of rushing anything. If he left even the slightest trace of the rider inside, it could call itself back together. He'd never seen that happen, had never felt it happen - but something deep inside told him that the possibility was there - and if that possibility ever became fully realized...

He shook himself, trying to rein in his wandering thoughts as he refocused his power for the clean sweep, blaming fatigue and a hard battle for his dithering brain. He took a deep breath, held it for a moment and exhaled slowly, feeling the main force of his power retreat even as the thin tendrils left behind flared again, icy waterfalls of silvery blue pulsing in and around the restrained body in the chair. His heartbeat all at once became the only sound he could distinguish, Ruby's soft, pleasure-tinged whispers of encouragement a mere wave of sensation - the floor under his feet, the bite of crisp autumn air against his skin; it all fell away, shrouded within the Grey as the world and Sam Winchester breathed as one, focusing, reaching and cleansing as he breathed out - the control easier, so much easier than ever man gave one last deep, miserable retch that seemed to force itself up from his toes and the slightest puff of pitch-black smoke rolled out from between his lips, dissipating before it even hit the floor. The host was now demon free - clean, if you will. But was he alive?

Sam pulled back, body relaxing, headache retreating (but only by a little) as the power within reluctantly withdrew, it's sudden loss a distant ache, like a missing limb - but one that he had trained himself to handle over the last few months. It was there, always there - ready to be tapped and honed like a weapon against all things demonic, his own little arsenal - one he would be using again soon enough, he knew and that would have to do for now. He was relieved (after he had taken a mere few seconds to get his breath back) that even that feeling of loss, that hurt like something vital was missing was diminishing more rapidly now, becoming less painful the more he did this. If he stopped to examine that thread of an idea too much, it terrified him - but deep inside, it thrilled him as well. He was getting better. Saving people, hunting things - the family business kicked up to a whole new level - and that was _fantastic_...it was more than he could have ever hoped for.

He blinked his eyes open, the lids twitching in surprise and protest at being made to stay up after being squeezed tightly shut for so long - the dim light a sharp burst of agony reminiscing of the reawakening headache as he swayed on his feet, the effort to focus a tad difficult as he tried to reanchor himself in the reality outside of his mind. As always, he was grateful for the darker surroundings. Maybe one day he could wield his power in brighter light, but he was still learning, and with learning came lessons - and one of those lessons was pain. He rubbed absently, uselessly at his temple as he slid back into awareness. His first real, coherent thought was on the man tied to the chair in front of him. He had a fleeting idea (memory?) that he might have learned his name, but that had fallen into the Grey, irretrievable now that he was no longer connected to his power - though he supposed that really made no difference. If he needed to know who this man was, he could always ask him when he came to - but then again, maybe not. What they should do - what had become pretty much S.O.P. for these runs - was drop him at the hospital and hightail it, just become a bad memory for the poor soul, so much fodder for his nightmares and his shrink to sift through.

Leave names for those who needed them.

He heard Ruby step forward, the toe of her boot gritting against the concrete and cursed his wobbly attention span for the second time in under two minutes, shuffling towards the bound individual in front of him - those few steps seeming to drain all his remaining energy, even as fearful excitement flooded through him, leaving him breathless, almost giddy with hope and renewed joy. He was sure, very sure it had worked and as he felt for the faint pulse that thrummed in the former host's carotid, he could only feel relief and a weird urge to cry. The guy wasn't awake yet, but he looked none the worse for wear after the exorcism - proven by the very fact he was still alive and breathing. This was a win/win all the way around - made the damned railroad spike in his head worth it, every agonizing second.

He grinned at Ruby, relishing the proof of life for just a moment more, before moving to untie (Riley? Reggie?), his fingers stiff and clumsy as they tore at the ropes, his exhaustion and excitement only adding to the awkward fumblings of his movements. Ruby smile back at him, soft and wondering as she moved in to help.

"How'd it feel?" She sounded as excited as he felt, her awe and pride at his accomplishment shining through her eyes - though Sam knew the question itself was a two-fold one.

"Good," _fucking-__**phenomenal**_, "no more headaches."

'_Well, none worth mentioning.'_

"None? That's good," she replied, tone mellowing, relaxing as she helped pull the last of the ropes away.

She backed up a few feet as the man began to stir, groggily attempting to sit up and speak, eyes rolling helplessly in his head as he hummed wordless sounds in Sam's direction, panic and fear flaring to life in his eyes. God knows how long he'd been possessed - he could have been puppet-mastered for fucking years, for all they knew.

"Hey - hey, I got you. It's alright..." Sam murmured, leaning down to help the poor bastard to his feet. Right about that same time, he could feel Ruby's drastic shift in stance off to his left and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Something had changed, the atmosphere had grown denser, tighter somehow - they were being _watched!_

He shifted loosely on one heel, one arm still slung under the half-seated man's shoulderblades, his body automatically moving into a defensive posture, using the main bulk of his torso as a shield as his other arm tensed, hand tightening into a fist. He felt Ruby step backwards, away from the chair and it's occupant, sliding into a semi-flanking position to cover Sam's exposed side, her soft exhalation demanding he focus his attention on the here and now instead of dividing it between the potential threat and their recently saved captive. The signal was heard and processed before Sam really had time to think and he let the guy shift further down, hovering over the chair as he rotated into a full 90 degree spin on his right foot, fisted hand coming up in a warding gesture that would register as a threat to any demon who had _brains_ enough nowadays and came face to face -

With Dean...


	2. Chapter 2

**Perspectives**

**Chapter One**

**Part Two**

**'Jouets Du Destin (Toys of Destiny)'**

_**Il nous reste toute une vie pour pleurer - Et maintenant nous sommes tout seuls -Protect my from what I want, Protect me from what I want, Protect me from what I want - Protect me, Protect me - **_**Placebo**

_He thought he knew how empty a hotel room could feel - he'd lived through six grueling months after the Trickster's first Wednesday and yet four months more on top of that after Dean had made his trip Way Down South. _

_He thought he knew, but that was where the joke lay right there. When someone is dead, when they're gone - it is a void, a hollow ache were they should be. But when they are alive, it is like a whisper you hear behind you constantly. _

_Empty - but not. _

_Every hotel room from then on was empty, though that really wasn't the word for it. It took him over a week to cipher out just what that word was, but when he did the irony hit him with a wallop that was both amusing and depressing all at once. _

_Haunted._

**0-0-0**

**4:44AM**

Dean.

'_Aw, FUCK_.'

He froze, his thoughts a jumbled train wreck as he fought (and failed) to keep his facial expressions calm and rational at the sudden appearance of the last person he expected to see, standing big as Billy-Be-Damned in the doorway, his eyes, his face unreadable in the dim, predawn darkness. Sam could feel his brain jumping a million miles ahead before he even fully _saw_ his brother, all the excuses, explanations, rants and pleas he had shored himself up with tumbling into an incoherent mess in his own mind, showing him how weak and pathetic words really could be sometimes. Nothing - _nothing_ could have prepared him for this. Up a shit creek without a paddle was a serious understatement when confronted with Dean, alive, solid, in person and no doubt madder than Hell, too.

Not that Sam could blame him - he had promised after all. Then lied and lied and lied to cover it up.

Fucking Ruby. Never thought he'd have his face rubbed in it by a demon.

He was disgusted with himself - being so sloppy he got caught before he could properly explain what he was doing, why he was doing it, was stupid. And really, if he thought about it, he was a little pissed at Dean, too. Fucker never could keep his nose out of anything - especially anything that had to do with his younger brother. Dean had spent his whole life so far up his ass, Sam could swear he was lodged there permanently - but when he went to Hell..._shit_. He'd seemed so out of it here of late, Sam figured he'd never get caught - not like _this_, anyhow. It was fucking embarrassing!

He could feel his celebratory mood evaporating as quickly as it had formed, and damned if that didn't piss him off, as well.

He tried to keep it all in check, put his expression back into neutral (or some semblance of it) before Dean caught wind of the tangle of mixed thoughts and emotions he had, and reacted (or overreacted, as was more Dean's style) accordingly. But when Sam saw him, actually _saw_ him...

Words just couldn't describe it.

It wasn't just horror, or anger, or sorrow - or any of the things Sam fully expected. It was pain, confusion and loss. His brother looked _lost_, like someone had just slapped him with no provocation, like his whole world had gone under and he was left with nothing but empty space. He looked like he had no idea where he was, or even why.

At that moment, Sam's disgust with himself, with Dean - his anger at being caught so flatfooted and at the mercy of Ruby's 'I told you so', his utter weariness at the whole game of hide-n-seek-and-gak-the-bad-guy overcame him and he knew, just knew, that Dean caught it. That he was going to misinterpret it (though maybe, just maybe, not _completely_) and he was going to pitch the biggest bitch-fit that Sam had ever seen in his life. He tightened his lips and looked away - turned away from that pale, stricken look on his brother's face - and before he could help himself, made what he knew had to be the biggest mistake of his life (as if getting caught playing Psychic-Wonder didn't qualify.)

He glanced at Ruby, his eyes pleading for some type of aid, some kind of help - and he could almost feel the sharp intake of breath from Dean, even knew what this looked like. But he couldn't stop himself if he tried. He needed Ruby to tell him what to do about this, as the guy he usually asked for help, asked for guidance - was the guy he needed help _with_. And how sad is that? That one day you wake up - and you don't even know how to be a brother to your brother anymore?

He tore his eyes from Ruby, who looked just as pissed, miserable and scared as he felt (so, _tons_ of help there) to see Dean's face draw into itself, his eyes a blank slate of nothingness, the vivid moss green becoming dull and almost...empty. His brother wavered for a moment, like the ground under his feet was no longer solid, his eyes darting from Sam to Ruby to Sam again - but Sam didn't think he saw either of them, not really. He could feel himself swallow hard, jaw creaking with the strain of unclenching, his mouth suddenly dry and sticky, lips parting to say god knows what - but Dean was already turning, the muted thud of his boot against the concrete loud and shocking in the stifling atmosphere of the warehouse.

Bewildered by this odd turn of events, Sam could feel his brain stutter in his skull, his reactions delayed by fear, exhaustion and an odd sense of detachment - like none of this was really happening. Like he had fallen asleep in Ruby's car and dreamed this whole miserable two fucking second encounter - and that any moment now he would wake up and know what to do.

But the tingling at the back of his neck, the chill in his throat from the autumn air, the tightness of his chest all told him differently. This was real. This was happening.

He had to stop it.

"_Dean_."

He nearly choked on the disgust, weariness and lost confusion in his tone, the very sound like shards of glass being thrown into a metal pipe. He could feel his own reluctance crawl up his windpipe and die within his voice, and for a mere moment he found his capacity to hate himself was never-ending. He just wished Dean had stayed away, that Dean had never had the notion to follow him -

_That Dean didn't exist..._

- that he could just start this day over and tell Ruby to fuck off and do it her damned self.

'_What a fucking mess_.'

He was tempted to run after him, the echoing fade of his brother's footsteps raising the fine hairs on the back of his neck, setting off internal alarms to something _not-right_ and _this-is-bad_. He was not in the slightest surprised to find he was already in motion, his body on autopilot while his mind waffled and hummed to itself. The only thing stopping him was -

"Sam."

'_Speak of the devil_.'

"Ruby, I -"

"No, Sam - we gotta go. This guy's in pretty bad shape."

"But -"

"_Sam_." It was as close to a plea as she could get. He turned to face her, the rumble of the Impala's engine a counterpoint to how futile it would be to chase his brother down after all - the alarms chirruping in his skull hitting maximum before fading with the screech of the Chevy's tires. He blinked once, his pleasure over his success -

_Saving people, __**hunting**__ things - the family business..._

- a mere tickle of relief now. His head throbbed and his stomach felt like it was turning inside out. What little light there was in the room was too much, every noise was like a rifle-shot and he had a bad feeling that things were only going from bad to worse the longer they delayed.

"Yeah," he sighed, taking in the pale, drawn face of their survivor - poor guy looked half dead. Ruby didn't look much better, her features ashen and tight in the thin wash of moonlight from the window, eyes dark and unreadable as she stared at him, her hair swaying down to hide her expression as she leaned over (Randy? Rocky?) their charge, checking his vitals. "Yeah, I hear you - let's go."

He hurried back to her side, leaning down to take the brunt of the young man's weight, his back already twinging in protest as they slung his arms over their respective shoulders, his hunched posture sending a cramp down his legs as he kept pace with Ruby, hustling the ex-victim to her Mustang. In record time they had him laid out on the back seat, Sam's jacket serving as a makeshift blanket. He wished fleetingly (for the second time in under an hour) for the Impala's worn Army blanket, but shrugged it off as he buckled himself in, feet braced against the worn floorboards as Ruby accelerated out of the gravel lot. He twisted his upper body in the passenger seat to check on the unconscious ex-host, hand hovering over him as Ruby spun the car around towards the road, ready to shift him if he rolled towards the edge of the seat. Within seconds she had the nose of the muscle car (an irony in itself that hadn't passed Sam unnoticed, the vast differences between the two people he needed most and yet the sameness of them) on the blacktop, heading towards the hospital. Once the tires touched pavement, he reluctantly pulled his arm back to his lap, assured that their passenger was dozing and secure.

He crimped himself back into the tight space, fleetingly wishing for the Impala's leg room before banishing the thought of her to the back of his mind. At the same moment, he banished all thoughts of his brother there, too - brain grinding away for a plausible explanation for the man's condition that the ER techs would swallow, his eyes unfocused and far away as the mild headache he'd been fighting back for the last ten minutes bloomed into a humdinger of a migraine. And here he thought he might avoid it this time - or at least avoid acknowledging it. Though this one seemed less power-based and more 'I'm fucked and unable to think/talk/beg my way out of it' based. Ahhh, the joys that awaited him when he got back to the hotel room would be fucking _epic_. Great.

Ruby cleared her throat and he fought the spike of pain that accompanied his aborted attempt at an eyeroll, a weird, breathless dizziness gripping him for a span of two seconds, forcing him to breathe through his nose until he found his equilibrium again. Once more, lights were too bright and every sound was like steel wool being scrapped across the thin tissues of his inner ear, but at least he could turn his head and look at her afterwards without wanting to throw up - well, i_immediately/i_ at any rate.

'_Mental note - do NOT try that again,_' he thought grimly, hoping she would pass off his less than quick response as either a reluctance to talk or as an absentminded brain-fart brought on by a long night, hard work and not enough sleep.

"I thought you didn't have a headache," she began, her brow furrowed in the muted wash of light spilling through the windshield. He shrugged carefully and swiped his hair out of his eyes, dimly noting the dull ache his fingers left against his skin, his whole body wanting to join in the clamor for dark, quiet and numb.

"I didn't - not at first..." He trailed off, hoping the conversation would end there, even as a small part of his mind hoped she would punish him with more questions - keep that look on Dean's face fixed firmly in his head, keep him from being able to will it away and ignore it. She looked as if she was going to push the issue for a minute, but said nothing, waiting for a beat to see if Sam would elaborate. When he didn't she frowned in irritation and shrugged, glancing at him only once before putting total concentration on the road, tires dragging and sliding in the occasional dense slickness of predawn frost.

It seemed mere moments, but had to have been at least half an hour before they pulled up, tires screeching, at the entrance to the ER's Trauma Unit, Ruby's door open within seconds as a team of orderlies and nurses spilled out into the chilly morning, the light and noise being the last thing Sam needed - but the first thing their victim needed. He folded out of his own door and and assisted the first pairs of hands that reached into the back of the Mustang, cradling the man's neck and shoulders as vitals, stats and orders flew around and over his head, the ache that resided behind his eyes trebling as he fought to breathe through it. He stammered a half assed explanation of finding him passed out in front of a bar, as the still unnamed individual was whisked through the automated double doors, the light and noise of the trauma team fleeing close behind them. He staggered and found himself almost following them, the response to orders and shouting so ingrained that he had to will himself to stay put, to keep out of the way. The guy was an unknown - sure, they saved him, but they weren't obliged to him beyond that point.

There was one medic still hovering nearby and he waved him off before the tech could start in on him, mumbling something about a headache and going home. He equally ignored the rapid, machine-gunned questions about who he was, how he found the man, etc, etc - and crawled back into the passenger seat of Ruby's car, barely registering her murmured yet firm replies to the nosy nurse before she got back in herself, frown between her eyes growing deeper as she gunned the engine and pulled away.

They drove back to the hotel in silence, the shushing sound of the tires on the road soothing and grating all at the same time against his poor ears, his eyes closed in elf defense against the assault of light and moving lines on the blacktop. This ride was much shorter, but seemed to last forever - the silence inside the vehicle heavy with unanswered questions and obvious lies waiting to be voiced, but Ruby did him the mercy of keeping quiet, the hum of her breathing a counterpoint to the tires on the road.

Finally, finally they slid to a smooth stop in front of the room, the engine cutting out was a clanking groan that left the quiet pressing against his ears more painful (if possible) and he creaked his jaw in protest, swallowing thickly to ease the dryness of his throat. Ruby said nothing and made no attempt to touch him, a gesture that spoke of understanding and past experience and his relieved gratitude was so overwhelming he almost sobbed for the sheer beauty of it. He slowly uncurled in the seat, taking slow, deep breaths as he did so, the whiplash of pain dulling to a throb, then a distant ache. He was unsure how long he'd sat there, trying to manage breathing and not vomiting at the same time, but not too long after he'd gotten the hang of it, two pills landed in the cup rest in front of him, a bottle of water (lukewarm - but so much better than shocking cold right now) hovering just within reach.

He snatched at the water, almost regretting it as his world tilted for a moment, then slowed his movements as he uncapped the bottle, taking two short swallows, swishing the water around in his mouth to take the edge off the dryness on his tongue. Three more deep breaths and he took the painkillers, concentrating on keeping still and letting the pills work their magic before he would dare to attempt more strenuous activity. They sat in comfortable silence as he waited it out, the tense atmosphere fading with his headache - though it was still ten more minutes before Ruby dared to talk, her voice pitched low and soft in an attempt to keep his pain from reaching a crescendo once more.

"We could have gotten you looked at, Sam. It's been awhile since it's been that bad, I know - but this one...it looked really killer. I thought you were going to pass out on me. You're supposed to let me know when you get a headache, Sammy - and you are definitely suppose to wave the white flag if they get to be too much. I can't help you if you don't tell me anything - and I can't depend on you to help _me_ if you can't even raise your head without throwing up."

He took the concern, the jibe and the scolding for what it was and nodded as much as his pain would allow, the thumping pound of his head receding faster than he thought it could, leaving only a weary blankness in its place. He tilted his head slowly to catch her gaze, the frown she'd been wearing for the past hour, now more of worry than anger or impatience, and he mustered up a tired smile for her, his mouth feeling heavy and uncooperative.

"I'm sorry, Ruby," he sighed, patting her arm awkwardly. "I didn't mean to scare you, just..."

He trailed off there, closing his eyes and taking pleasure in the void of pain for a moment, the ache disappearing slowly but surely as the seconds passed, his skull now one piece instead of the shattered conglomeration it had been just mere minutes before. It was becoming easier to think, to speak now that the crash of pain was erasing itself. It was taking longer than he'd like, but at least the pills were working. At one time, all the Tylenol in the world couldn't touch this kind of pain, but this was more of a stress headache anyhow - he recognized it from long hours cramming for exams and poring over Dad's journal for information on the latest hunt. He barely avoided thinking about Dean - and forced his mind to stay away, to not go there right now. He'd be dealing with him soon enough, he supposed - though why Dean hadn't yet come out of the room to check why they were still sitting out here was a head-scratcher. Shit, Ruby was taking a real chance by hanging out here with him this long - he must've looked real bad this time around.

"It creeped up on me before I could really tell how bad it was getting - and then when we were dropping him off at the hospital...well, my mind was on him, not on my headache, you know?"

"Sam..." Chiding, but worried again. "Sam, you need to take better care of yourself, " _Dean should take better care of you._ "I mean, if this is too much - if we need to stop for awhile -"

"No!" A flare of lightening behind his eyes, a warning and a threat. "No - this was... This had nothing to do with the job tonight. I think I just need to get some sleep and some actual food in my stomach and I'll be okay. I don't...I don't want to stop - and I'm not going to let anything stop me from doing what is right, not even a little headache -"

_Named Dean_.

"Okay, Sam - but if you ever need to take it easy, slow down some -"

"I'll let you know, Ruby." He forced himself to look at her, the last whispers of agony fading back to the dull buzz they had started out as and managed a watery smile. "I promise, okay?"

She smiled softly in return and threaded her fingers through his, her eyes shy and unsure as she snuck a glance at the still closed hotel door.

"Can you -?"

"Yeah...hopefully he'll reserve all of his yelling for later. Depends on his mood, I guess. He's had time to cool off, soo..."

He lifted one shoulder in a half shrug, still cautious about too much fast movement, the fear of pain almost greater than the pain itself. Ruby nodded in understanding, tension flowing out of her upper body at the confidence and assurance in Sam's smile. She squeezed his hand gently and then released herself from his grip, eyes drifting back to the windshield, squinting as if she could see through the door to the room beyond.

"If you need me -"

"I'll be fine," he soothed. "It's just _Dean_, Ruby. He'll be pissed, he'll be growly and want to scream a whole lot - shit, he might even lay a punch on me, but it's nothing I can't handle. And I might even have that punch coming - I _did_ lie to him, after all."

Her lips thinned in disapproval (but she disapproved of most things concerning Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam, anyhow) but she said nothing, a mild snort the most she would muster over his statement. Sam really wasn't in the mood to discuss it with Dean, wasn't really in the mood to _deal_ with Dean - but he figured he could at least hear him out. Dean would probably puff and blow, overreact to the whole thing and say hello with his fist rather than his voice - and though this would only prove Sam right about keeping it to himself for so long, he knew he'd be able to bring his big brother around. It would take a lot more talking, cajoling and groveling than he felt up to at the moment, but it was doable. He just hope the coming roundhouse wouldn't send the churchbells in his head back to ringing.

He stalled a moment longer, concerned that Dean hadn't yet made an appearance (and they had been sitting in front of the room for damn near twenty minutes) and caught between the hope that he was asleep and the hope that he had cooled off and was now concerned, too. A worried Dean could be unpredictable, but a worried Dean was easier to talk down overall. Didn't mean Sam wasn't hoping harder than not that he was asleep, though.

'_Well, no time like the present,_' he thought wistfully, cracking his door open with a squealing snap while trying not to cringe at the echo of it in the dawn quiet, automatically casting about for any pissed guests as he clambered out of the tight confines of the Mustang. He managed to successfully jackknife himself out of the cramped seat, stretching to relieve the ache in his back and legs, before leaning back down to peer at Ruby, hand held loosely on the door.

"Just, ahhh...call me. 'Kay?"

"Sure Sam, you know I will," she replied, smile sitting gently on her lips. She still looked worried, but not as badly as before - and her eyes sang apology for what awaited him inside. "Just, you know - take it easy, alright?"

"No problem," he muttered distractedly, leaning away from the inside of the car as he pushed the door closed with a muted thud, digging into his pockets for his keys before he even stepped foot on the sidewalk, turning to give her a small wave when the engine came to life once more, vehicle swinging away from the curb mere moments later.

"See ya'..." he whispered, finally locating the plastic card in his right jacket pocket, turning to face the room again as a flutter of mild panic rose out of nowhere to settle at the bottom of his stomach. He grimaced at the sudden surge of emotion, unsure what caused it, but all too aware of the prickle of fine hair that rose along his neck and arms the closer he got to the room. He flicked a glance at the curtains, sure he would see Dean peering out of them, or even a silhouette of his shadow outlined against them - but the curtains remained still and bland in the weak light from the rising sun, not so much as a flicker of movement stirred the stiff cotton weave.

The lack of any activity, of any sounds from within made him pause on the threshold, key hovering millimeters away from the slot, head cocked against the splintered, washed out paint of the door, his whole body straining to listen. But there was nothing. The very air felt sludgey and thick in the leaning quiet, tiny alarms that he had thought long silent more than an hour and a half ago becoming loud and insistent once more beneath his breastbone, the whole atmosphere off-kilter and whispering of 'not-right'. He stared at the beaten plywood of the door dolefully, hesitant to see what was making all of his senses go on alert, but curiosity making him anxious to just get it over with.

He'd alway been the more cautious of the two brothers, but an insatiable nosiness was usually the first thing to do him in. He depended more naturally on his head, his knowledge, than his gut. Instinct was Dean's department - his internal radar would make a veteran cop green with envy and his street smarts left even the most adept con-artist shaking their heads with admiration. Every now and again Sam was blessed with a sliver of intuition, sometimes powerful enough to rival Dean's - but he always had a hard time relying on it, mistrusting the sensations that came with it, especially when hard logic defied such feelings. Though there were times...times just like _this_ -

He stilled his muscles and his mind, concentrating on his breathing, his heart-beat - using these two constants to gauge what he was feeling, get a bead on his surroundings.

The seconds ticked by with the thud of his heart. Behind and to the left of him, a bird let out a sharp call, raucous voice cutting through the fog of his concentration and he jumped in response, air forced out of his lungs with a pained whoosh. He felt dizzy for a moment from the lack of oxygen, unaware until now that he had stopped breathing, he'd been so focused. He took another deep breath and let it out again slowly, a small laugh escaping him at his bizarre behavior. There was no reason to be apprehensive, no reason to be nervous - all he was doing was delaying the inevitable anyway. He smiled to himself, shaking his head again as he unlocked the door, the odd sensation of something wrong slipping away almost as suddenly as it had come, as if he had dreamed it while awake. He chalked it up to a left over side-effect of his receded headache and opened the door, taking care to keep quiet in case Dean had fallen asleep after all.

He slipped the key into the front pocket of his jeans, shucking his coat with practiced ease as he scanned the dark room. There seemed to be no movement, no sound inside the small space and Sam sighed quietly in relief. Meant that any and all confrontation would have to wait until Dean woke up, which meant (hopefully) a few hours of shut eye himself.

He would normally hang his coat over a chair or in the closet, but he was too tired to be formal and too wary of waking Dean to put that much effort into keeping quiet while shuffling around the room, so in an uncharacteristic display of carelessness, he dropped his jacket across the table, missing the muted hiss-scatter of the Impala's key as he stumbled to his side of the room, lulled by the protective front of his brother's bed near the door. Some things hadn't changed, and while Dean slept like the proverbial dead, now - he still insisted on sleeping closest to the door, just in case.

He located his bed and slid his body across it, half-heartedly toeing off his shoes, but not making much effort beyond that to get undressed, the blessings of cool, dark and quiet (_finally_) too hard to resist as he tugged a pillow under his head, covers foregone in favor of a faster slide into slumber - sure that Dean would cover him up if he found him like that. He might jump up and down and holler when they were both awake and moving, but until then, he'd just be..._Dean_ - and for a moment he thought about how glad he was to have that back, how much he had missed Dean and his Dean-ness while he was...away. He knew 'away' didn't cover the whole fucking load of baggage Dean had brought back with him, he knew 'away' didn't even come close to describing what his brother had gone through. When all was said and done though, he knew he had to make more of an effort to help Dean, to let him know (especially after tonight's little fiasco) how much he loved him, how he'd missed him - that he was there for him. But he would be no good to his brother dead on his feet, that was for sure.

He tried to force his mind to stop churning, pull it away from the uncomfortable territory it was edging towards and concentrated instead on the lovely (_fucking awesome_) euphoric feeling he got from exorcising demons, at his easy success tonight, at his win. He fell asleep quickly, his dreams unfettered or riddled with nightmares for the first time in a long time, secure in the inner knowledge that his brother was nearby, watching over him as he always had. He slept for a good portion of the morning and afternoon, relaxed and almost smiling into his pillow as his body enjoyed the rest it so justly deserved.

It would be the last time for a long time that he would sleep so well, so securely - and so untouched by the nightmare that he would awaken to barely six hours later.


	3. Chapter 3

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Two**

**Part One**

**'Meus Animus Sic Alveus (My Soul's So Hollow)'**

_**You take the breath you didn't make - What's left you did forsake - Lift me up my soul's so hollow - **_**Submersed**

**5:04AM**

He spared one last glance at the shadowed lines of the Impala as he closed the door to the hotel room, but as his feet got started on their path, he never bothered to look back again.

Even though he very much wanted to.

He did pause for a brief moment, at the edge of the Econolodge's parking lot - but only to assess where he was heading next. He smothered the inner voice of doubt, blanking his thoughts as he picked the nearest direction that would take him out of town, his legs only leadening once as though they were as unsure of this plan as his heart was. He mercilessly forced his right foot to obey his brain's orders and found it became easier if he moved faster. Soon - all too soon - he was half-walking, half running down the side of the road, unconsciously sticking to the treeline, eyes straight ahead as his body surged forward.

He didn't stop running for two miles.

**0-0-0**

_"You shouldn't have said that, Dad -"_

_"Oh, so now_ you're _gonna start - you have somethin' to say to me, son?"_

_"Dad," he paused, reining in the plea that had crept into his voice. Begging wasn't going to help, it would only make things worse. Only whiners and losers begged, not the sons of John Winchester - and certainly not his 'perfect soldier'. "I'm just sayin' you could have handled that better - you know how he is with ultimatums. All you managed to do was -"_

_"You'd better be real careful here, Deano," John warned, his voice thick with anger and menace. "You might say something you regret."_

_Dean gawped at him, exasperated now and more than a little pissed. Seems John Winchester was still raring for a fight - and even if Dean didn't give him one, he'd still find a way to pick it._

_Dean tightened his jaw, breathing through the anger that rose up to the challenge laid before him, taking a few seconds to pack it down and stow it to the back of his mind. He'd gotten rather good at that over the years, so there was barely an edge to his voice as he replied, shoulders tense with the effort it took to keep his temper. He leaned slightly to the right, focusing on his father's face until John looked back, Dean's gaze steady and hard, tone just this side of disapproving._

_"You could have just accepted it, Dad. Given a little - now? Now he's not gonna come back, not without one of us_ dragging _him back - and I'm not gonna do it. Not today - maybe not ever. You went...you went too far this time," he could hear the note of pleading bleed back into his voice and swallowed it away, ignoring the lump that had managed to lodge itself in his throat. "He's...he's gone now - just _gone_! _Sammy_, Dad! When you wake up tomorrow and he's not here - how're you gonna -"_

_"You wanna join him, Dean?" John's voice was deceptively soft, but Dean could hear the rage and threat underneath. Rather than be scared by this as he normally would be (nothing could scare him more than his Dad or his brother) all he felt was a weird throb of anger and betrayal. Everything he had done, everything that he had fought for, that he had put himself through for this family was being dismissed in just one sentence. He didn't know how to respond for a moment, too tired and enraged to think beyond the white noise John's words had left in his mind. Half his world had slid away, walked out on them while he just stood there like a fucking fool - and now the other half was hellbent on pushing him right out after it._

_Anger won._

_"No, you_ _jackass_ _- what I _want_ is for you to stop and think about what you have done for a change! I can't clean this mess up - and you know what? Even if I_ could _- I -"_

_Agony exploded along the left side of his skull and he had to jerk himself back to keep his footing, shaking his head a little to clear the ringing in his ears, as he cocked his jaw to check that it was still slotted where it was supposed to be. He caught himself before his hand could raise halfway to clap over the source of pain, forcing his eyes to meet his father's, Dean's face a mask of blank stone. It wasn't the first time John had hit him, probably wouldn't be the last - but it still hurt in more ways than one. And it was just one ache too many in a long day of them. _

_John gaped at him, shock at what he'd done flashing briefly in his eyes before it bled back into self righteous anger, the offending fist clenching and unclenching at his right side. He opened his mouth and closed it with a snap, before shaking his head in dampened irritation, snatching his coat from the back of the chair as he barreled past his eldest son, avoiding his gaze as he headed for the door._

_"I'm going for a drink," he grated, punctuating the statement with a slam of the hotel door. The second slam in under fifteen minutes and the answer it gave was just as clear._

_Discussion over._

_With a sigh, Dean grabbed his own coat, pausing amid the thundering absence of sound to get his bearings before he followed his father out, shutting the door with a hushed click instead of a hammering crash of wood against frame. He turned in the opposite direction of John, knowing he needed his space. He'd pick him up at the bar later and pour him back through the door and into his bed. Right now, he had other priorities. He jingled the Impala's keys in his pocket (relieved that John hadn't managed to snag them before he and Sammy threw down) and slid into the driver's seat, resting his throbbing skull on the top of her backrest for a minute or two, breathing in the Chevy's comfort and silence. _

_Before too long though, he cranked her up, thumbing the volume down on her radio as he pulled out of the parking lot, pointing the vehicle's nose towards the backroads - knowing instinctively where his brother would be walking..._

**0-0-0**

**5:56AM**

It didn't take him long to find a car.

He had come awake to his surroundings a mile or so beyond the city limits, his sprint down the small service road had ended in a brisk jog that carried him another few miles along until he had come to a fork in the road. Instinctively he took the left branch, avoiding the highway and heading deeper into rural farm territory. The itch of being followed wasn't upon him yet, but it didn't mean it wasn't coming - and he wasn't thinking just about Sam or Bobby, either. There were plenty of things out there that would love to catch a Winchester flatfooted and exposed, with no back-up and no defenses readily at hand. He might not be as smart as Sam, but John wasn't known for raising fucking idiots, either.

He walked in an almost zig-zag pattern across the roadway, noting the deep ditches on either side with approval. Deep ditches meant irrigation, irrigation meant farmland and farmland meant that no one would think to look for him here. It also meant good cover if a vehicle came down this road - which, as unsettling as it may be - had not happened for the whole half hour he had been walking in this direction. It was too country for Dean's taste, but that didn't mean he couldn't figure his way around it. All he needed was a semi-working vehicle and enough fuel to get him to the next rural township and he was set.

He had only gone another quarter of a mile before he found what he was looking for.

It was a rust bucket, but when he gave the engine a quick once over, he found it would at least get him a few miles down the road. Maybe far enough down he could ditch it and get a newer set of wheels. He glanced around, almost as if this lucky break of a working vehicle in the middle of a field spang in the ass end of nowhere was a trap just waiting to be sprung, but then shrugged it off, fully aware that time was not on his side here. If he fucked around too much more, he'd probably get caught by one of the said farmers (or farm hands) of this field and fucked wouldn't cover it. Sure didn't cover an ass full of buck shot and some bill-hillies wanting to play pinata with his skull.

He walked around the rotting Ford truck one last time, checking tires, undercarriage and plates before popping the lock (yeah, locked in a field in the middle of bumfuck - doesn't get more ironic than that) and climbing inside. In thirty-five seconds he had the engine turned over and the protesting jalopy up on the gravelly dirt road, all of his concentration centered on keeping her out of the ditch and checking to see if anyone was chasing him with pitchforks or some shit.

Dawn was fast approaching now and he was all too aware of the need to get gone. Light meant people and people meant trouble. More of that brand of nuisance he didn't need - he already had a full plate.

As he maneuvered the bitching truck through three miles of crumbling road, hoping that no one would recognize it (would be just his luck if someone did), he caught his first break as the rough, bumpy terrain smoothed out to mottled pavement, then after another quarter mile, flat, two-laned black-top. The break, such as it was, only lasted about fifteen seconds - the old girl was obviously used to being beat to shit and was therefore unappreciative of the easier environment, coughing and chugging another two miles before conking out half a mile from civilization, leaving him to hoof it and/or hope for another means of transport.

He tried to coax her into turning back over, but the ancient machine was having none of it - dead on the side of the road with (another irony layered in irony) a full tank of gas, no less.

"Bitch," he muttered, soothing the sting of his words with a soft pat to her dash. "Well, at least you got me this far, sweetheart. Hope someone comes along and gives you a massive overhaul and the tune-up you deserve."

He chuckled to himself as he wiped her down with his overshirt, hoping to obliterate most of the prints he left on her, before heaving himself out of the cab, duffle slung over his shoulder. He ticked back and forth for a moment by the side of the road, unsure as to why he was waffling - as the longer he took, the more of a chance he risked at getting caught with a stolen (even if useless) vehicle. After another second of contemplating the road behind him, he swung himself back on the path he had chosen, watching the faded white line under his boots as he walked.

He had only been walking for five minutes at the outside before a rattling whine caught his attention and he looked up to see yet another truck pulling up alongside him, window down as the driver peered at him, assessing his threat status, he assumed. He must have looked okay, because as he slowed from a walk to a stuttering halt, the truck also ground to a stop, the gnarled, yet perky occupant of the growling hunk of scrap (though still better than the vehicle he had just vacated) had popped the passenger side of the truck, motioning him inside.

"Thanks," he grinned, climbing in and plopping the duffle at his feet, shutting the door with a snap. "Not many people would stop for a stranger by the side of the road nowadays."

"I ain't most," the old man gritted, smile on his face belying the bluntness of his words. "Beautiful mornin', ain't it?"

"Yessir," Dean replied humbly, quirking a relaxed grin back. He liked this guy for some reason - he had some spunk, though he looked to be one hundred years old. He was wearing the typical plaid that screamed 'farmer', rough canvas jeans sitting loosely on his gaunt frame, boots encrusted in mud and other things Dean would rather not think about. Even without the getup - the leathery, weather-beaten skin and the bright green cap that perched on his head would have given him away, the worn, but cheery letters across the brim shouting 'John Deere' in an eye-watering yellow. The old man peered right back at him, truck idling as he scrutinized his hitcher. Whatever he saw in Dean's face he must have liked because he started moving again, a twinkle in his eye, and a ghost of an approving smile on his lips.

"Where ya' headed to there, boy?" he asked casually, the query anything but. His gaze flicked over the duffle at Dean's feet, to Dean and then back to the road as he asked, his cap pulled low over his eyes though the sun hadn't yet broken over the horizon. Dean contemplated his answer for a moment, listening to the rattling groan of the truck's engine, brow furrowed in thought as he realized he truly didn't know the answer.

"Nowhere," he replied. "Anywhere - I dunno..."

He shrugged, suddenly uncomfortable within his own skin. He could feel his throat tighten for a moment, and he had to check himself before he could glance towards the back of the truck, looking for what he was missing. Hell, he knew what he was missing - but wasn't he always missing him? He'd missed him for a damned long time, he was sure, maybe longer than he had even realized. He was aware of the old farmer's eyes on him, gaze steady, but soft - as if to give him some privacy.

Dean's surge of gratitude at the gesture was as painful as it was sudden and he had to clear his throat, quite sure that the man hadn't missed his aborted glance over his shoulder. He shrugged again, mouth twitching down in a frown before smoothing back out to a watery smile, eyebrow cocked as he let his eyes slide back to the windshield, though he really wasn't watching the road or any of the surrounding scenery.

"Whatever gets me the furthest, I guess."

The old man nodded, eyes just as far away, the shadows of the cab catching on the lines of his face and making him seem sadder and far older than he had a moment before. He glanced at Dean again, his eyes endlessly wise and knowing, though his mouth smiled kind understanding from under the ridiculously cheery cap. He flicked another look at the duffle and turned his attention back to his driving, patting the dash as the old girl wheezed to herself, breaking the shaky silence that had fallen over the inside of the truck.

"Wellah," he said, shuffling his cap around on his head. "I'm heading to Corydon, just the next town over - and I wouldn't mind some company. Can be an awfully long drive with no one to talk to..."

Dean took the invite for what it was and again felt strangely grateful towards this man who knew nothing of him and his life, yet was extending the hand of friendship - however brief it was - nonetheless. Shit, he could definitely use a friend at the moment, even if he could barely admit it to himself. Even one that he knew nothing about and knew nothing of him - so the thought was hardly an unwelcome one, in the end. Heck with it, he could keep him company, even if it was only for the next fifty miles or so.

"Sounds 'bout where I'm headed." He nodded, carefully not looking at the sly grin that flickered across the old man's face at that statement. "S'long as you don't mind."

"Not at all, young man," was the comfortable reply. He spared Dean one last glance, his eyes flickering between warmth and a curious pity, before launching into a mild tirade about the weather and its effects on livestock. Dean nodded at all the right places and interjected opinions in others, relaxing as the miles churned away under the old Chevy's tires, taking him further and further from all he had ever known as home.

**0-0-0**

_So cold. An eternity of it, stretching away beyond his comprehension._

_He drifted endlessly, so filled with today, yesterday and tomorrow's pain, he didn't hear Alistair enter his tomb._

_A snap-hiss of sound and a sulphurous stench filled his nose, even as the flare of sudden light blinded him._

_You got used to sulphur after awhile. More than that, the lack of it filled your mouth with the metal bite of fear - and an ache for what had become Home._

_"We have...much to discuss, Dean."_

_Alistair's voice rolled like cotton thunder, the sound reaching under the paper of his skin and tugging at his veins. It caught him from his thoughts as they rambled over the varieties of agony, snatched him from his ponderings of the reality of dreams and his dreams of reality._

_And whether they were really the same thing. _

_At the end of the day/week/eternity - it probably didn't matter. But this is what kept him grounded. Kept him alive in the bowels of his own private corner of eternity._

_Well, less private when Alistair came to visit._

_But after a while, that too became a comfort. _

_Pain became a friend, even as silence became the enemy._

_"I'm always so glad to come here and visit you. Takes me away from my endless projects," with an airless sigh. "But it is good -_ freeing_, if you will - to come down here and debate philosophy, humanity and the vagaries of the human heart. Don't tell me you don't love this free time together as much as I do - will break my heart. After all - what else is there to do on a Thursday night?"_

_The boom of his voice crawled over Dean's teeth and into his mind, digging itself a hole to burrow into even as he twitched with protest at the scrape of sound. _

_Pain was a reality. Pain was the_ only _reality - this, he had come to learn. _

_If you took away pain, there was nothing left._

_It was the nothing you had to be scared of. Pain was hardly a thought - it was constant, demanding, intimate and deep. Today he knew it well. Today, his agony was so complete, he was sure he dreamed it, even while widely, hopelessly awake._

_"Let's discuss Loyalty, today, Dean..."_

_Where did he fit in?_

_What did 'Dean' mean? Did it have purpose, cause - a righteous fire?_

_" - Whaddya say?"_

_Was Alistair 'Dean'? Was He a twisted figment of his own imagination? Or was Alistair fragments of a pipe-dream to take him away from the real horror of silence and nothing?_

_"Dean?"_

_Or what if...what if_ he _was the dream - and_ Alistair _was the reality? _

_What if 'Dean' was nothing but a fleeting day dream in the mind of Alistair?_

_"Fuck -_ fuck off_..." he croaked, surprising even himself. He thought the ability for speech was long gone. He thought the ability for_ thought _was long gone._

_He wished Alistair would wake up and make this all disappear._

_"Now, now..." Chiding, regretful._

_Dean shivered on the verge of his disapproval, fear warring with a grinning, insane joy. _

_He could still make him angry. That had to count for something, right?_

_"That wasn't very nice, Dean." As placid and unmoving as the Mountains._

_Mild, patient...unyielding._

_"We discussed Manners just the other day, didn't we, Boy?" A rhetorical question that begged an answer on the tip of a knife._

_The shriek of razor on steel made his mouth dry and his heart pound. _

_Lust or fear? Pain or joy?_

_Was there a difference?_

_"I thought it was a fine lesson. And as always, you seemed to grasp the..._subtleties _of the discussion so well. Made me proud, it did..."_

_Sorrow colored his voice gray even as light glistened off the living metal of his favorite teaching tool. The keen edge of the damascus eating, swallowing the Light and reflecting it back on itself, turning it into the creature known as Pain._

_"Do you need a refresher?"_

_Sorrow bled black hatred into Dean's heart as he swallowed a sob, weakness nipping at him as he shook his head, wanting Alistair to stop, to leave him alone - as much as he feared it._

_But Alistair prepared for the lesson regardless of Dean and his protests and pleas. _

_He was the Mountain - and he was unmoved._

_Mountains can't feel pain. They comprehend nothing but themselves._

_But this begged the question..._

_Were there really mountains? _

_Was there life from Before the dream? _

_Or - was it all in his head? _

_Did he_ always _live here?_

_"__**Fuck**__." he rasped, past the point of weeping as he curled his toes in anticipation of the inevitable._

_"Just let me know if this stings, hmmm? I'm trying to get a handle on this new idea I came up with. You don't mind working with me on this, do you?"_

_He tried to answer, to make himself more real in this nightmare of his own doing - but found his tongue skewered, cleaved to the roof of his mouth even as his lips parted to plead with his Master._

_"I mean, I hate to set aside a full day's plans - but we can always discuss Loyalty and it's benefits and disadvantages tomorrow - don't you think?"_

_Alistair did the polite thing and removed the offending object from the cradle of Dean's jaw, the slide of the blade heard more than felt as it left it's self imposed slot inside his flesh and bone. He carved a new slot for it to rest as he leaned forward, eyes darkly lit with fond interest as he awaited his pupil's reply._

_After all the teacher himself must be open to new and fascinating ways to learn. But he was only rendered disappointed in the end._

_Dean was too busy choking on his own blood and screams to properly reply..._

**0-0-0**

**7:30AM**

The old man, known to his friends as Twig (though there were few of those left above the ground) and to the bank as Mr Birch Collins, looked over at his sleeping traveling companion, still unsure why exactly he had picked up a total stranger from the side of the road in the first place.

Not that he was sorry he did.

The young man (who had called himself 'Dean Forrester' - though somehow the name didn't fit, even as it slid easily from his mouth) had drifted off about ten minutes ago, his eyes just sliding closed as the truck rumbled and jerked herself down the country lane, the various potholes and uneven patches not seeming to disturb him or his rest in the slightest. Twig didn't have the heart to wake him, even as Nancy yawped away in his head about borrowed trouble and how it always comes home. He chose not to listen to his dead wife's voice (kind of his prerogative now, when she was alive, he didn't have much choice, bless her) but chose instead to listen to what his heart said, though his bum old ticker only led him right half the time. Her voice declared he was trouble, his heart said he was _in_ trouble - and not much choice about it either.

Besides all that, one didn't let down a fellow veteran.

He could smell it on him - trouble or no, this boy was a fighter, he had known war and all that it brought with it. You could see it in the way he walked, the cautious cheeriness of his voice, deep in his eyes where he held all the horrors he had seen. Twig had been in The War - he had seen his fair share of horror, but something told him this man in a boy's body had seen far more than he ever had in his very long life and probably all before he could buy beer on his own. So, trouble or no, rogue or not, Twig let him hitch a ride and was damn glad he did. He was sure he was a troublemaker in his own right, had probably been on the wrong side of the law more often than not - but what good soldier, what good _man_, hadn't had his brush with trouble? This boy seemed lonely, too - lost. And those who were lost were bound to find themselves deep in it and be a Johnny's enemy even through no help of their own - and that was just facts.

He hummed softly as the old Chevy chugged along, proud of his decision and a little pleased with himself, Nancy's voice be damned. It had been a long time since he could be of use to his fellow man and it was a feeling that he hadn't forgotten. It was warm, it was right - and somehow, just by trusting him enough to fall asleep in his cab (and boy, didn't Twig know that must have been a toughie for such as the likes of him) it gave him a sense of fierce protectiveness that he hadn't felt in more than a decade. This Dean fellow had more than made his week, he had made his whole bloomin' year - all by deciding to step into his cab and trust an old man to get him as far as he could go.

That was the only thing that troubled him. Dean acted like there was something missing, there was something wrong. He didn't fit right all by himself - he seemed the type that would be best in the company of others, watching over those who couldn't watch themselves. So why was he alone? And why was he so uncaring about where he ended up?

That was the one thing that weighed on Twig's mind, that made his heart heavy with wonder.

What would make a young man like this run - and what was he running from?

**0-0-0**

_He drifted, thoughts an incoherent tangle in his skull as his temperature steadily climbed, skin achy from fever and tension as the bite mark on his calf grew more and more septic. He'd cleaned it out, taken the proper meds - even gone to a hospital, only to beat feet when his latest alias failed him on all counts. He'd just snuck into his clothes and out the back door, staggering to the nearest vehicle left unattended, berating himself for not double-checking the insurance card against his ID - there were too many questions he couldn't answer (well, not brilliantly anyway - his brain having melted into goo hours ago) and it was only by the merest chance he even overheard the nurse discussing his 'special' case with the doctor. All it spelled was trouble with a capital 'T' and he was just too wiped to throw on his game-face and try to bootlick his way around the cops that were probably standing in the doorway of his hospital room right now putting out an APB on his sweet ass._

_Stealing the car probably hadn't helped._

_He called the front desk and extended his stay by a few days, pissed that the damned black dog was gonna burn through his credit card as well as his leg by the time all was said and done. He wished for Dad, he wished for Sam - and while he was busy wishing for the impossible, he wished for his mom and some tomato and rice soup. He wished he had moved faster, dodged harder and killed that evil fucker before it attempted to take him with it._

_And he wished these fucking pills would kick in faster. What the fuck good are pain killers if it takes them fucking forty-five goddamned minutes to start working?_

_He rolled up onto his side, cursing the lumpy mattress with all its dips and springs poking out, determined to either impale him or dump him ass first on the floor - forcing his feet to swing up and around over the side of the bed, blood leaking bright against the garish comforter, the sickly sweet smell of pus and iron permeating the hotel room._

_'_Fuck me, I am so screwed,_' he thought wearily, watching with detached interest as his blood pooled on the floor below his foot, knowing this was bad - that this whole_ thing _was bad - but unable to muster forth enough energy to do anything about it._

_"Probably just wind up fucking it all up further," he muttered faintly, eyes wide as the bright red across the musty yellow quilt patterned orange blossoms of rust, the combination enough to make his eyes ache. Or maybe that was the fever. "Simple fucking black dog, Dean - can't you do anything right?"_

_The deep ring of his father's tone (the imitation so close it was eerie) made him jump, even though it issued from his own mouth. He shouldered sweat off of his forehead and peeled his jeans up around his knee, bending at an awkward angle to get a look at the damage inflicted on the broken flesh, head spinning dizzily from tilting parallel with the floor. He frowned at the blackened edges of the wound, wondering if he could even stand up to get to the med kit across the room, or if he would just land spectacularly on his own face._

_That was, if he didn't vomit Exorcist-style first._

_'_Fuck it_.'_

_He managed to heave his delirious bulk to his feet, swaying only a little as he pondered crossing the five feet of space to grab the kit that_ only _weighed ten pounds. He almost snorted to himself, but managed to stop (as even that small action might send him to the floor) and just did his level best to put one foot in front of the other, frowning in irritation that he didn't have another bed to fall across if he decided to make hotel floor diving a passtime. Seems double bed rooms were popular in this neck of the woods, at least before a certain black dog made lunching on kiddies the norm and not the exception._

_Still didn't stop the tourists from flocking to their deaths in droves. This had only spurred him into action faster - which earned him a bum leg, a fever of 104 and a king fucking bed that currently had blood splashed all over it. Another reason to have two beds was the advantage of bleeding on one while you actually slept in the other - though it didn't charm housekeeping in the slightest. _

_It also made the room seem less...empty. Almost like -_

_'_Like Dad will be back any minute._' _

_Though he was in a whole 'nother state, thousands of miles and too many months away. And God knows he didn't dare think of Sam - that was just...that was a fucking nightmare of a headache right there._

_He lugged the ten pound kit (which felt more like fifty) back to the ruined bed, half hunched over as if closer proximity to the floor guaranteed not slamming into it and pawed through the contents, brain fuzzing and stuttering on itself as he tried to focus on grabbing the antibiotic ointment, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, tweezers and cotton swabs._

_It_ _only took him a whole five minutes of fruitless searching to find he was out of swabs._

Shit_._

_He glanced blearily at the gore-splashed comforter, idea sparking in his head that would make him not only less popular with housekeeping (if that was possible), but also colder for the next two nights, as he didn't dare call the front desk for another blanket with the original one wrapped around the lower half of his leg. But then again, this was yet another example of why it usually helped to have two double beds._

Fuck_._

_Ten minutes, fifty swear words and half a pint of blood later, he had strips of the comforter bandaged around his leg and two more tablets of antibiotic in his system. He didn't know why he had the phone in his hand, though he vaguely remembered calling Dad and mumbling something into his ever present fucking voicemail before calling it quits and hanging up._

_Oh well, at least he had killed the black dog - so John wouldn't be calling him back to tear him a strip. He didn't have enough strips left - plus the fact it was almost a guarantee John wouldn't respond unless he neglected the job. Dean had gone this round a few times already - and it was becoming less fun the more he learned that_ his _ass was less important than some random douchebag with a camera and a picnic blanket tripping around raising supernatural nasties for him to gak._

_Things became kind of vague during the next half hour. He knew he had cleaned up the hotel room, knew he had ordered pizza and paid for it when it came. Even knew he had downed a couple of slices and drank half a liter of water - but the rest was...fuzzy. He had no idea what was blaring on the TV, no idea if he had reinforced the salt lines at the door - and for some strange reason, he really didn't even care. Let 'em come! Maybe they could knock his ass out and he could sleep without shivering awake from fever._

_Damn, his leg hurt like a bitch._

_So he really wasn't responsible (not being in his right mind or whatever) for his own actions when he picked the phone back up and dialed Sam's dorm room. He couldn't be really held accountable when the phone rang and rang while he waited breathlessly for the sound of his brother's voice, the need to hear him more important at that moment than any black dog, or APB for fraud, or lack of contact from John Winchester or slowly bleeding out in a ratty motel in the ass-end of nowhere. Just to hear his voice - it would make this all better. And then he could rest._

_"Hello?"_

_Dean's mind ground to a halt, his hopes to hear Sam were just that, really - hopes. To actually_ hear _him, alive and well and breathing air that was normal and safe. Well, it was mind-blowing, that was for sure._

_He tried to muster up enough energy to speak, to at least say Sam's name, but his throat was dry, his lips were numb and he just couldn't seem to find the words. So he just sat there like some kind of freaky stalker, breathing on the other side of the line, soaking up the warm sunniness of his brother's voice._

_"Hello?" More hesitant this time - almost uneasy. He should really hang up now - he was torturing the poor guy. Enough was enough. But..._

_"Hello?" Still uneasy, voice slightly harder from fear or anxiousness before it softened again. "Dean?"_

_He sucked in a breath and gripped the phone so tight he could hear the case creak. Squeezing his eyes shut, heart thudding in his chest, he clicked the End button, Sam's panicky voice vibrating in his hand before being cut off abruptly._

_"Dean? Dean-"_

_"Fuck, why did I do that?" he hissed to the empty air, checking the urge to throw the phone across the room. "_ Fuck_."_

_He was still waffling on either disintegrating the offending cellphone beneath his good boot or calling Sammy back when the phone rang, causing him to fumble with it and almost drop it from shock._

_'_Oh god, please let it be Sammy - just this _once_..._'_

_He checked himself before he could say the name, line open and phone to his ear almost before he could think about it, his energy levels and ability to just_ deal _at an all-time low. He didn't even have the strength to give his name, too tired and drained to do anything but wait. Let the asshole who called him do all the work._

_"Dean?" He almost hung up right then and there, John's voice enough to spook him and piss him off all in one go. He just didn't have the mojo for this crap right now - he sorely needed to sleep and get_ his _shit together before dealing with Dad's shit. _

_Yeah, like that was ever going to happen._

_"Hey, Dad - I killed it, don't worry." He tried to keep the bone-deep weariness out of his voice, dredging up some pep and pompous from god-knows-where to throw across the phone, not needing to alert John to anything wrong._

_"I know you did, son," the closest John would ever get to praise. "I just need to know how you're doing there."_

_"I'm...I'm good - Dad, I..." He picked at the comforter (or what was left of it) hoping Dad wouldn't hear him lying out his ass. "Sorry I called, I just -"_

Wanted to hear your voice. Wanted to assure you that I can do this, that I got this. Wanted you to come home_._

_"Sorry."_

_"It's okay, boy - it's good to hear from you." _Liar. _"Look, where are you?"_

_"Outside of Bardstown, Kentucky - near the Indiana border."_

_"How about you meet me-" _

_And he rattled of where he was and the fastest way to get there and_ fuck_, Dean didn't want to do this. He wanted to hole up for a few days and get his head right, lick his wounds and move onto the next job. His leg was killing him, his noggin was not far behind and he honestly was afraid he'd crash the Impala if he tried to make a 12 hour trip to where his dad was currently at (with no sure-fire guarantee that he would even be there when he arrived). But he found himself answering 'yes' in all the right places, his crap packed and stowed in the Chevy's trunk before he could really question the good sense of driving all night with an infected leg, no sleep, heavy blood-loss and a temperature of 102.1. _

_Not to mention the fucking fun that was waiting at the end of this journey when John nosed out the extent of the damage the black dog had inflicted on him._

_'_Well_,' he thought with an inner sigh as he told the manager he was checking out after all and yes, he understood that he still had to pay for a full night's stay. _

_'_It's not like I haven't done this under worse conditions._'_


	4. Chapter 4

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Two**

**Part Two**

**'Already Over'**

_**You never go, you're always here (suffocating me) - Under my skin, I cannot run away - Fading slowly**_** - Red**

**7:45AM**

Dean hadn't even really been asleep for half an hour before his cell went off in his duffle, the muted clink-crack of it against his Colt 1911 alerting him to the call even before he had fully come awake. He leaned over, not even bothering to swipe at his sleep-lidded eyes before locating the cell with one practiced snatch, kicking the duffle shut even as he flipped the phone open to put it to his ear.

"Yeah?" he croaked, cracking one eye to shrug apologetically at Birch before turning his attention back to the phone, shoulders straightening at the sound of his name in his ear, even as he was slumped against the door, seeming for all the world relaxed and at ease. "Yeah, hey Bobby - how's it hangin'?"

"Whaddya mean, how's it hangin', boy? What are you and your idjit of a brother up to anyhow?"

Meant Bobby didn't know. And if Bobby had no idea that he'd hightailed it like a bitch and left Sam on his own, that meant he was in the clear - at least for right now. There was no way in fucking Hades he was going to tip his hand to this one. Bobby'd blow a gasket - then come find him and blow a hole a mile wide in his ass with a shotgun.

"Same as usual, you know how it is, Bobby."

"Yeah and I also know you're full of shit there, son. You sure you're okay?"

"I'm fine!" he hissed, embarrassed that he was being quizzed in front of a complete stranger - even if it was only over the phone and by Bobby Singer. "Why does everyone feel compelled to ask me that?"

The line went quiet for a moment and Dean could feel a flush of remorse creep over his cheeks, free hand coming up to rub absently at his eyebrow.

"I'm...I'm sorry, Bobby. Look, how I'm doin' is not important, okay? I'm...I'm coping - you know?" He sighed and straightened up, realizing further shut eye was not forthcoming anytime soon and needing this conversation over before Bobby copped to the fact he was flying solo over here. "Whatcha' got, Bobby?"

"Well..." Bobby was reluctant to let it go, but he figured he'd save Dean the embarrassment and himself from wasting a dime to only get hung up on by cutting straight to the chase. "There's a 'geist that's tearing up a small town in Illinois -"

Dean pulled his notebook out of his breast-pocket and reached down into his duffle again for a pen, mentally taking notes while he rummaged, careful to not let too much of the duffle's contents shift into Birch's sight. The old man kept his eyes on the road and seemed to all intents and purposes to be tuned out and Dean felt another surge of gratitude to this stranger who had chosen to go out of his way to be kind to someone who, for all he knew, was a walking billboard for trouble.

Thankfully the phone call didn't last long and Dean could only breathe a sigh of relief as Bobby hung up without his usual gruff and affectionate sign off. He really didn't feel up to hearing about how he should watch out for the guy who had no need of him anymore, if he ever really did. It only served to remind him that before all this mess, before demons and Hell and Lilith, he barely had a place on the planet much less with his family. And now, what little place he had was gone, erased slowly but surely over four very long months and by a whole span of things he didn't understand.

Not that he really wanted to, either.

Seems Sam wasn't the only one who changed while he was doing the Hellfire Rumba.

He slid his phone back into the duffle, debating internally on whether or not he was going to take the job as he zipped the worn canvas closed, fingers smoothing over the straps in an absent gesture. He sat back up, allowing his upper body to slump againt the door again, eyes shuttering closed in weariness and the wish to escape. Escape from what, he wasn't exactly clear on because wasn't he doing just that?

But then, how far did he get before he was found again?

Bobby's phone call disturbed and unsettled him on many levels. First (and the biggest) was the call itself. If Bobby didn't know there was something wrong before, he'd figure it out very soon. And by soon, he meant within the next 24 hours. All it would take was one phone call to Sam and his cover would be blown. He was hoping to buy enough time to get far enough away to go to ground - and that right there brought him to the next problem. If he didn't do the job -

If he didn't do the job.

He snorted to himself, knowing that to ask himself to look the other way, to _run_ the other way was a damned impossibility. Everything in him railed at the thought of abandoning more people to a nasty fate and he knew, Hell or no, alone or no - he couldn't turn his back on those people. So, the job it was. Next came the trick of doing it, getting out and not getting caught - by either Sam or Singer. Because if Bobby put two and two together, he would come up with pissed off - and Dean had seen that once up close and well, not _personal_, but close enough to know he didn't want that brand of anger aimed at him. At least, where he could see it and it could whip up a shotgun on him.

He finally came to a semi-sleepy realization that there was someone else within the close confines of the truck's cab and that he had been nothing but rude the last ten minutes, if not the last hour. After all, you didn't fall asleep in another man's vehicle, take a phone call and then promptly ignore him without some type of explanation or apology at the ready. He could feel the headache from earlier creeping back in and wondered absently (for the fifth or sixth time) just why this man had let him into his truck. He didn't exactly scream 'Joe Normal' and if anything he probably looked more dangerous than your average Satanic, kills-puppies-on-the-weekend serial killer.

He was working himself up to speak, to apologize, to tell this man he wasn't always like this - uncaring, rude, selfish and obtuse - when Birch piped up, saving him from an embarrassing case of foot in mouth.

"Sounded like that was important. You got somewhere you need me to take you? I can always go to Corydon some other time..."

Dean's head snapped around to stare open-mouthed at the elderly man, left speechless by this little announcement, his brain scrambling to come up with words adequate enough to express his horror, gratitude and shame at the genuine offer - both of the aid and of his time. He blinked long and slow, his impersonation of a slack-jawed yokel ending abruptly as he straightened in his seat, fingers of his left hand coming up to fiddle with his silver ring in a nervous gesture, eyes everywhere but on Birch himself.

"No! I, um - you are almost there and - well, Coydon is uhhh, fine. You don't need to trouble yourself, I mean -" He stopped rambling and licked his lips, letting his hands fall in his lap, gaze drifting back towards the scenery as it whipped past, shoulders lifting in a slight shrug. "I've been a rather rude guest, you know? I can't think of a way to thank you enough for just stopping and letting me ride with, so...there's no need for you to call a halt to your day, Birch. I can find my way there -"

"You tryin' to deprive an old man of an adventure, Dean?"

He must have gotten the response he wanted, because he smiled softly when Dean glanced in his direction, the young man's mouth quirking at the corners in reply to Birch's rough humor, the words harsh yet tempered with an absent fondness. He seemed to understand the heart of Dean's discomfort and dismissed it all with a croaky cough and a wave of one arthritic claw.

"You hain't been rude none, there, boy. It's been a hard morning - man needs a nap now and again, believe me I understand that! So you did me no harm by noddin' off - just saved yourself an earache from all the jawwin' I can get to doin' if I have an audience. And I must admit, you're a pretty captive one too, as it's kind hard to escape from a moving vehicle, I'm sure. Did yourself a right favor there." He grinned good-naturedly at his own quip, rheumy eyes twinkling with warmth and understanding before sliding back to the road, seemingly concentrating on blacktop that churned under the old Chevy's wheels - though Dean was quite sure this old guy never missed a trick.

"As for that phone call...well, as I said - seemed mighty important," he said shrewdly, his eyes glittering with a deep knowing for a mere moment. "And I'm not one to turn my back on my fellow man if he needs an assist, you get me?"

"Yes, sir," Dean responded, half ready to laugh or bolt, he just wasn't sure which. "I'm not the type to do so, either. I just don't want to put you out of your way. I'm sure you've got damned better things to do than drive some punk-ass around, wasting your gas and your time - when most people got little enough of both."

Birch cackled at that, eyes sinking into a sea of wrinkles for a moment before he shot back with, "Well, I already told you, son - I ain't most."

"Yeah, yeah you did." Dean grinned back, resigning himself to the man's offered hospitality. "Just don't blame me if you find my company lacking."

"Ahhhh." Another flap of the hand in a 'go on, there' gesture. "I just enjoy company - any sort'll do."

"Didn't figure you for one to be so hard up," Dean shot back, smile bleeding effortlessly into his voice as he bantered with the old man.

"Just not picky," Birch replied, his happiness at their exchange radiating off of him like sunshine. "Must have low standards."

Dean chuckled in appreciation at that, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he mulled over what Birch offered. It would make things faster and much easier, in a way. He'd be harder to track than if he just hopped a stolen car or two in and out of his destination. It would get him there and out in under twelve hours - which just left all of the USofA to get lost in within the next twenty-four.

He chewed his lip in thought, staring out at the buildings and bustling streets that had sprung up beyond his window, pretending to debate with himself, but already knowing the answer without half trying. He was still just stunned that the old man had offered - though in retrospect, with all that he had learned in under one short hour or two, he really shouldn't be. He felt an odd kinship with Birch, almost like they were destined to meet - and if fate and destiny had taught him anything, it was to not take such meetings lightly, nor turn away from them when they crossed his path. He was unused to asking for help, or accepting aid when it was offered, but Hell had a way of humbling you and fast. It wasn't like he was in a position to be choosy and it looked like the old man was just as pleased with their new found acquaintance as he was. In the end, it really wasn't a hard decision at all, if you had pride step out of the way for once.

He glanced over at Birch, noting how the man seemed to take his silence for what it was and left him to it, just as relaxed and easy as you please behind the wheel of his crumbling Chevy, though his eyes were as sharp and deep as they must have been as a young man. Yup, this guy never missed a trick all right - which left Dean to wonder (yet again) just what he saw in a hitching vagabond by the side of the road that made him feel compelled to stop and help him. Maybe, as they traveled, he'd ask. Then again, Birch was a rather chatty creature, he might not have to ask at all.

"So!" the old farmer boomed, looking pleased when Dean only startled a fraction. "Have you decided?"

The old rogue already knew the answer, he just wanted to hear it out of Dean's mouth, his eyes shining with what looked like joy, maybe even hope - and Dean found he couldn't deny the old buzzard his adventure.

"Only if you are sure you want to throw your lot in with me," he replied, his own eyes shining for the first time in what felt like forever. "It's a bit out of the way - as in waaayyy out of the way, but hey, it's your gas, old man."

His words slipped out flippantly, earmarked with a shrug and a raising of his eyebrows, watching out of the corner of his eye as Birch's tiny smile widened into a grin, a small cackle barking out of his throat as he relaxed back into his own seat, his grip on the wheel loosening as he shot a mischievous look at Dean. The old guy looked as if Dean had made his week just by saying yes and that alone was worth swallowing his pride to accept the help that was given so freely.

"My gas for now, young man - yours at the next gas station. Oh! And the coffee's on you, too."

"Fair enough," Dean laughed, settling in to enjoy the ride. "So - do you need to know where we are going? Or do you just plan on riding all around the states with me?"

"Well, maybe you'd better run it by me - I'm not as good at eavesdropping as I was in my younger years," Birch replied.

Dean told him the township and they bickered lightly for the next five minutes on how to best get there as Birch pulled into the nearest gas station to fuel up, laughing as he crowed over the 'free gas and coffee' he'd be consuming on Dean's dime.

"Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Chuckles," Dean grumbled half-heartedly, making a show of pulling out his wallet and clapping the dust off of it as he ambled into the store, step lighter than it had been just a mere few hours ago. He banished all thoughts of Sam, Bobby, the job and plans for the future out of his head, intent on enjoying the open road and his new friend - even if it was just for this next little while.

He knew, if anyone did, that sometimes you just had to take those small moments and make them last - you never know when you might see them again.

**0-0-0**

**Bobby**

**7:52AM**

Bobby hung up, a scowl of worry creasing the deepening lines on his face as he placed the phone carefully on the edge of the desk, hand coming back up to yank at the brim of his hat, resettling it absently as he worked over his conversation with Dean in his head.

It wasn't so much what he heard as what he _didn't_ hear that got his alarms going off.

For starters, it was the background noise or lack thereof that bugged him. He could hear that Dean was in a moving vehicle, but it sounded...off. Then there was the fact that the noise indicated it was moving - not sitting still - and from the way Dean was talking and muttering to himself, he was taking notes. Now, all of this could mean that Sam was driving - but there was no rock music, no interruption to their talk like there usually was with Sam. If the boy couldn't get the info directly himself, he had a habit of asking random questions in the middle of a call leaving Dean to split his attention two ways. And if the boys had had a fight, Dean would have sounded more tense, words bitten off and caustic - but there was none of that either. Dean sounded tired, distracted almost, but not angry or tense...well, not fight-tense anyhow. Seemed Dean was tense and edgy more often than not these days, but that was perfectly understandable considering the boy had just been dragged from Hell not but a month and a half before.

There were plenty of good reasons for Bobby to let this go. Too many variables and too much time passed since Dean's little trip Downstairs - things could change and radically in such a very short period of time. A lot of things.

But it didn't stop his gut from worrying him 'bout most to death on this one.

He sat for a few more minutes, turning it over like a puzzle in his mind, stripping the conversation apart and piecing it back together, looking at it from a variety of angles - but he still couldn't find that little cog that didn't quite fit, that couldn't be explained away. It just..._sat_ there, cold and heavy in his middle that something was wrong. Something was very wrong and it was so simple that he missed it by a mile.

At eight o'clock he dragged his ass out of his desk chair, sighing as his spine creaked ominously at him and got started on his day, putting the boys and what ever trouble they might be in towards the back of his head, letting his sub-conscious have a chew on it for a while as he fielded orders, scrap calls, ritual requests and other detritus that filled his days (and some of his nights) as the mild-mannered owner of Sioux Falls only junk and auto graveyard. He toyed with the notion of calling Dean back, or even Sam, but let it go as soon as he thought it. The job was being handled, that was all that mattered.

It was well past lunch and going on towards the mid-afternoon when he thought about it again, _really_ thought about it - and that was only because his phone rang and something deep inside (that same clawed, cold whisper of something that told him Dean had, in fact not escaped Hell's clutches - and was right) told him it was one of the boys, and that some Deep Shit had landed on one or the other of them.

He cursed the urge that had made him drop it earlier and bitched all the way to the phone, calling himself nine kinds of fool and much, much worse as he answered, heart thrumming high and hard in his chest.

"Singer," he bit out, fear and uncertainty making him sound harsher than he intended.

"Bobby?" Sam's voice wavered through the line, the pitch this side of thin and soft which meant nothing but pain and fear and too much of it besides.

Singer felt his feet go out from underneath him and he was grateful he had left his phone on the kitchen table as his ass would have just kept going till it met floor otherwise. Not that landing hard in a high-backed kitchen chair was any fucking treat, either.

"Bobby!" Panicked now.

"Yeah! Yeah, I'm here boy -" he croaked out, but got no further as true to form, Sam plowed on ahead at fifty miles an hour, a shaky thrum of something-not-good trebling his voice and making him sound all of twelve again. Bobby could feel his insides clench, cold and thick, his limbs like lead as he struggled to decipher what Sam was babbling, that thin thread of alarm coming back to haunt him.

"-don't know where he is! I've rung his phone off the hook - I've called every fucking hospital from here to the next county, _shit_ - I've called the fucking _cops_, Bobby! I'm two seconds away from calling the Feds, but as far as they know we're dead and dammit, he'd kill me spreading his description like the fucking plague but goddammit Bobby I have no fucking _idea_ where the hell he is! The fucking Impala is outside so he can't have gone far, but the bars are closed and it's been..._hours_, Uncle Bobby - fucking **hours**! And I don't know what to do - _please_...you gotta help me..." That last came out as a sob and Bobby's heart stuttered in his chest at the sheer panic, fear and utter loss in Sam's voice. The fact that Sam Winchester called him Uncle Bobby also shook him - Sam only called him that when in deep distress or feeling particularly playful - and he didn't sound exactly playful right now.

He glanced at the clock, startled that it was only 2:30pm and then bugged by the fact that yeah, it was only 2:30pm - and wait...did he say the Impala was outside their room? Then what -

"Wait - Sam...Sam slow down. Deep breath, son, that's it. Now - begin at the beginning – "

"- and when you come to the end, stop." Sam blew out a shaky breath, but a smile surfaced in his tone at their old joke, sounding a little calmer now that Bobby had control of the phone call. "Okay...okay. It kinda uhhh, started this morning?"

Bobby almost smiled himself at Sam's last statement, the question tagged at the end of it like he was asking permission for something. Sam always got that way when unsure or worried, usually when he was in trouble with his dad or brother and he needed to be reassured that he wasn't gonna get his ass kicked by all and sundry. It was a tone he used rarely lately and it almost warmed Singer to hear it again.

"Okay, good place to start. What happened this morning, Sam?" He waited patiently for the answer, knowing that when Sam felt he was in deep shit or cornered it could take a few minutes to get anything out of him. Must have learned that trick from his brother - boy could clam up faster than a hooker not getting paid when he got the notion and Sam was a quick study. Learned a lot of bad habits from Dean, he had.

About Dean -

"Sam?" he prompted, feeling time was of the essence here after all - and they didn't have a lot of it to dally about with.

"Well, uhhhh...I snuck out - and Dean, ummm, he caught me - and well...things kinda went downhill from there," Sam supplied reluctantly, his squirming obvious even over the phone. He blew out a breath and Bobby could almost see him on the other end of the line, perched on the edge of his bed, left foot jiggling as he leaned down on his right leg with the phone jammed to his ear like it could hold him up, left hand swiping through the messy tangle of bangs across his forehead. What Dean called his 'Sammy is thinking/constipated/being a girl' position.

Singer almost grinned at the image and at the elder Winchester's snark ringing through his head, but caught himself before it could translate across the phone, clearing his throat so he could put some stern forcefulness behind his next set of words, get that stubborn ass of a Sammy Winchester to cooperate with him while he pumped him for information.

"Okay - stop right there, Sam. What do you mean 'snuck out' and what do you mean 'got caught' and 'downhill from there'," he gruffed, knowing Sam would respond best to 'Take Charge Bobby' better than 'Freaking Out and Pissed Bobby' - the latter was apt to have a Winchester (any of 'em) digging in their heels automatically, whether it was good for them or no. He berated himself for the five millionth time for getting involved with the Winchesters again, but dismissed it just as quick. At least these boys kept him sharp - he had missed that during the four years he and John hadn't talked.

And sometimes he missed that old ornery bastard too - like a toothache that wouldn't _quit_, but one that you got used to over time.

Sam sucked in a breath on the other side of the line, steeling himself to talk, but his reluctance telling Bobby he wasn't going to get much, if anything at all - just enough to give him a vague notion of what had happened and how it all went down. Just enough rope to get the noose started but not hang himself with.

Damned Winchesters and their damned secretive ways.

"I uhhh, went to get rid of a demon and well...Dean was sleeping so I kind of, uhhh, left?"

"_Dammit_, Sam -"

"I know! I _know_, okay? But...well there's a whole lot there I can't get into," typical evasive tactic, "- so just...just go with me on this, alright?"

And Bobby could feel it - if he didn't play along, Sam would hang up and leave him as high and dry as he did...what was it, five months ago?

Felt like five years...or five days - he wasn't really sure.

"Okay, Sam...alright, just tell me what happened - what you think you can and we'll go from there, right?" Soothing, like the type of voice you use on a spooked horse. Sometimes he felt like a fucking yoyo with this frigging family -

_But it's oh-so-worth it._

"You hearin' me, boy?"

"Yeah - yeah, okay Bobby," Sam replied, taking a deep breath before launching into what had happened less than eleven hours before.

It took only a minute or two, but to Singer it seemed hours. He heard what _wasn't_ being said, how far the wedge between the two of them sunk and he wondered if it had happened before Dean had even went to Hell. It seemed his brother's miraculous save from the Pit hadn't stopped Sam from the secret activities that had driven him from Bobby's house months before, and those activities were exactly what he was hedging about, Bobby was damned sure.

So Sam had snuck out to do God knows what, Dean had followed and _seen_ that God knows what - and now here they were, trying to find a man who had been trained in how to cover his tracks by one John Winchester and no one had any idea what tricks he had picked up in Hell. Now he just had to tell Sam about the phone call he made this morning - the one that Dean had answered. He didn't know what the boy was doing now - shit, what he had been doing this morning, but he had a nasty feeling that Dean had done the one thing neither of them had ever thought of.

But it was best to not jump to conclusions here. Could be that Dean just was having himself a little daytrip away from Sam, either to get himself under control or throw a scare into him. Hell, maybe a bit of both, though Dean wasn't known for being vindictive that way. That little voice in the back of his head was wrong - it had to be wrong.

"And...and he left and I figured he went and blew off steam somewhere - or just went straight back to the hotel. Nothing seemed out of place, you know? Figured he'd ream me out this morning - but...his bed hasn't been slept in and there are no bars within ten miles of here. So, I thought maybe he went for a walk and either got hit by a car, or got on the wrong end of a fight - so I called his cell, which goes straight to voicemail and you know how he never turns the damned thing off. Then I called the hospitals, the morgues, the-the cops - no sign of him!"

From the jiggling of the line, Bobby guessed that Sam was now pacing, his agitation forcing him to move - yet another habit he had picked up from Dean.

"Sam there's somethin' I have to tell ya'."

Bobby waited for a reply, but it seemed Sam was either not listening, or had dropped the phone.

"Sam?"

Silence on the other end, not even any breathing - and in the background...was that the sound of keys? Bobby's stomach knotted with dread as his internal alarm spiked and then went quiet. Now he knew for sure. He knew why Dean had sounded so off earlier this morning. He hadn't been in a taxi, or a girl's car, or sitting beside Sam going to the next job as he had told himself all morning. He had done the unthinkable in his world, the one thing that Bobby was sure he would never have done of his own free will. Dean was -

"Bobby..." Sam sounded breathless, shocked - his voice thin and reedy. Seems like he had figured it out on his own. "The _keys _-"

"Sam -"

But Sam wasn't hearing him. The sounds of drawers being slammed open and closed drifted over the line, accompanied by the youngest Winchester's panicked, uneven breathing.

"_Fuck_! His duffle! His duffle is gone! What the fucking _hell_, Bobby?" Sam rasped, his voice hoarse and close to tears. " Nononono-no-no-_NO_! He didn't! Please tell me he didn't!"

"Sam -"

"_Fuck_!" he screamed, as Bobby flinched away from the phone, an idea kindling in his head. "Fucking _stupid_ sonuva - ! What the fuck was he _thinking_? What the fuck?"

"_Sam_!"

"_What_?"

"Boy - I'm gonna tie a knot in your friggin' tail if you use that tone with me again! Now, calm down - I think I have an idea where he is going."

"Where? _Where_?" The pain and desperation oozed through the line like a disease and Bobby's heart did another thick slow thump in his chest. Damned Winchesters. They were going to fucking kill him one of these days. "Bobby, please, I -"

"Hang in there son, gimme just a second," he replied, sounding calmer than he felt. Dean had a good head start on them , but if they timed this just right...

He rummaged across the mess on his desk for the proper address as he talked, trying to keep Sam (and himself) cool and collected as he told him about the phone call he had made earlier that morning - and what that phone call was about.

"This morning, early too, I called Dean with a job -"

"What? _Bobby_ -"

"Now boy, I had no idea what was goin' on! Hush and let me tell you where he's going and why!"

"Yes, Bobby, okay...sorry."

"That's okay, Sam," he said kindly, knowing the panic the kid was going through was practically killing him. Shit, it wasn't doing wonders for Bobby, either.

"Okay - I've got the address." He rattled off the exact location for the poltergeist haunting in Peoria, Illinois and waited for Sam to say he had it before laying out the gameplan.

"Alright - I say we come at him from both directions, okay?" Sam hummed a confirmation - and from the various shuffling sounds in the background, he could tell he was packing up to move - and fast. "I'll meet you there. I'll have to break the speed limit and hard to get there - but we should be able to catch him either in the middle of the job, or leaving town. I'll see you there - okay, Sam?"

The noises paused for a moment and he could hear Sam struggle not to break, his breathing rapid and strained.

"Th-thank you, Uncle Bobby. I just...I can't believe..."

"It's alright, Sam - I'm sure he'll feel nine kinds of foolish when we catch up with him. You know how he gets now and again - we'll just...tie him to a chair and talk some sense to him."

He could see Sam nodding in his head, the boy would do things like that - get so involved in a conversation he'd forget you were not standing right there.

"Hey - hey, Sam - at least we know he's safe, right? Nothing grabbed him, he's not hurt." So far, anyway. "We'll find him, okay? Everything will be just fine."

"Yeah, Bobby," Sam said quietly. "Everything will be just fine."

The next sound was a click in his ear and he sat there for a few minutes, phone glued to his ear, dial tone sounding an empty line while he tried to breathe.

Damn Winchesters.

After he had gotten himself somewhat under control, he started to move, grabbing his prepacked hunting bag (courtesy of dealing with the boys again) and headed to his car, stowing his pistol under the seat and his cellphone in the cupholder before turning her over, the rumble of the engine making him pause for a moment. He wondered how he had missed it this morning, shit how he had dismissed the strange phonecall itself, when the Impala's rumble was so distinctive. He should have called Sam right then, he should have done a lot of things, really - like pay better attention to his boys, to the things they weren't saying or doing - instead of pretending he was so far removed from it all.

Hopefully, he would get the opportunity to set it all right before the the day was over. It was obvious they all had things they needed to sit down and discuss - Bobby included. He needed to let these boys know how much they meant to him - he may not be their father, but he loved them all the same. It was about high time they knew that, too.

**0-0-0**

_He_ _had no idea what to do from here._

_He didn't dare leave, in case Sammy came back - but he couldn't afford to stay here either._

_Two days._

_Two days of calling various hospitals, morgues, police districts and his friends. Two days of fear, of terror really - and if CPS wasn't on their tails now, they would be soon with all the frantic calls he had made all over the county, looking for his missing fourteen year old brother. _

_His brother who had packed up everything that he owned and snuck out in the early AM a mere two days ago, leaving Dean paralyzed for the first few minutes with horrible thoughts of kidnapping, rape and murder while he stood in the door way of Sam's bedroom, spatula dripping egg all over the floor._

_He threw the pan out with the eggs still in them. Then proceeded to make phone calls - a lot of them, in a very short period of time._

_He knew Sam wasn't at the school (it was the middle of summer), or the library or a friend's house. After he had searched Sam's room for signs of forced entry, he had discovered all of his things missing, with only a few odds and ends left behind that Sam felt he hadn't needed. One of those things he had left was the hoodie that Dean carried with him everywhere like a lifeline, or an anchor, the soft linen crumpled from the grip of his fist, stained where his sweat had soaked through and made a semi-permanent mark on the cloth._

_He prowled (there was no other word for it) endlessly, restlessly around the house, running on little else that leftover adrenaline and stale coffee, all thoughts of food banished to the back of his head. It wasn't that he didn't fix meals - he fixed them, setting up plates for two and doling out whatever meager fixings he could eek out of their depleted fridge between the two, only to throw away the food hours later as it congealed to the cracked, smudged surfaces that laughingly were called porcelain. He couldn't handle the thought of food, barely could tolerate the smell of it as his stomach churned with the need to move, to find Sam, to fix whatever was wrong - what made him run away. _

_God, Dad was gonna _lose _it!_

_When he wasn't prowling, pacing or making frantic phonecalls, he pretended to rest, to sleep. He was damned sure, though, that laying tensed on top of the sheets, every muscle trembling from exhaustion as he fought to stay awake, ears tuned to any sound within the house - counted as anything but rest or sleep._

_He was running on empty by the time Dad came home, his reserves depleted after 48-56 hours of sheer nervous strain, ready to bolt, snap or come apart at the slightest push._

_Too soon – or maybe, not soon enough – John Winchester came home, back to the rinky-dink shambling shack they called home at the moment. A blast of insane heat from the outside followed close on his heels as he tore through the door and Dean wondered, briefly (already sure he was insane) if this was Hell – because it sure as shit felt like it. He hadn't dared to call him, to pull him off of the trail of the creature he was tracking for his fuck up, but one look at Dad's face and he knew that had been a mistake._

He knew_._

_Somehow, some way, he knew – and he crossed the fifteen feet between them in two strides, face hardening even as his eyes darkened with fear. It was all there in the set of his jaw, the pull of his eyebrows, though Dean didn't need to see any of this to know he'd fucked up. Now it was time to own up and pay the piper._

"Where_, Dean?" he growled, moving to step into his eldest son's space, though hovering just on the edge of it, as if afraid to be contaminated by his failure._

_Dean said nothing. There was nothing to say – no information to give here, so he did the only thing he could. Keep silent._

"Fuck_! God_dammit_, Dean – can't you do_ anything _–" He bit down on the last bit of that sentence, breath leaving him in a furious rush as he turned away, throwing his duffle across the room, barely watching where it landed before he was back in Dean's space again. "When? How long?"_

"_Dad –"_

"_Don't you even fucking –!_ How long_?"_

"_57 hours," he breathed, not sure how his lungs were still functioning, air moving past his vocal cords with the weight of this disaster pressing down on him. "Two and a half days…Dad, I –"_

"Shut_._ Up_. Shut your fucking mouth – let me think," John rasped, fear deepening his growl to a roar, unable to look at his remaining son, his anger and disgust eclipsing all thought and reason._

"_Have you –"_

"_Called everywhere," he replied wearily, standing tall even as his insides folded from the look on his father's face. "_Everywhere_, Dad – I couldn't leave in case he came back, but…"_

_Dean shook his head, knowing these were all excuses – he shouldn't have let Sam run away in the first place. The rest was just compounding the problem – and most of the problem was him. He should have been more alert, more on the ball – of all people he knew that – but he didn't hear him leave, see him leave, stop him. And now God knows what had happened to him._

_John shook his head, the ridged line of his shoulders telling Dean everything and nothing all at once, the air heavy with rage and disappointment. He still wasn't prepared when John turned to face him, the look of anger, of fury really and the deep lines of resigned knowing almost too much to take. He thought he saw loathing in his father's eyes when they darted over his face, hatred steeped in the sad quirk of his mouth and he shuddered against it, hoping against hope that he imagined that look._

_This was so much worse than what had happened with the Shtriga, so much worse and he found he could almost accept his father's hate, his rage, as he had nothing left inside for himself but that. He had only one job – one job – and he had screwed it up._

Again_._

"_Dean, you –" John began, mouth thinning under three days growth of beard, his countenance weary and determined, shoulders straightening as he (forced himself to) look into his eldest son's eyes. "You fucked up, you know that, right?"_

_Dean couldn't speak with the weight of his failure crushing him, so he nodded, swallowing hard against the darkness in his father's gaze. It was like looking at a stranger. Worse, even - it was like seeing a stranger reflected back at him. It was almost as if Dad didn't know him. As if he didn't want to know him – and he could feel his heart stutter to a halt before resuming its frantic tattoo against his ribs, a small, twisted voice inside wishing it would stop altogether – anything, anything to keep his father from looking at him like that._

"_I_ trusted _you. I trusted you to take care of your brother. This is not the first time I have found that trust misplaced, have I?"_

_Dean sucked in air against his teeth, shock shaking him down to his very bones. That day had never been mentioned, never been hinted at – and now here it was, all laid out on the table, his sin of complacency dragged screaming to the light to be examined, picked over and tossed at his feet._

"_You know…you know what you have to do, right?" Calm, his anger seething below the surface of gentleness, waiting for him to open his mouth and destroy whatever was left between them._

_He dropped his gaze, unable to look him in the eye, unable to trust his voice as he nodded to the floor, his father's glance too searing and too filled with disappointed resignation._

_He suppressed a gasp as the front of his shirt was clutched with an iron grip, his back slamming into the weak plywood-drywall combination behind him as John's rage found an outlet – his son's quiet acceptance an open door for his wrath. A fist sailed past his face and embedded in the wall, breaking through with collapsing thunder and he wondered if Dad had pulled his punch at the last moment, knowing Dean needed to be upright and moving if he was to salvage the mess he had created. That thought was wiped away as the fist withdrew from the wall in a shower of plaster, the fingers in his shirt tightening as he was lifted from the floor, toes tagging the dust at his feet, shaken like a puppy until he looked up into the detached ire that danced in his father's face._

"_I didn't hear anything, Dean."_

"_Yes," he rasped, voice raw with fear and sorrow. "Yes, I know what I have to do."_

_John released him and to his credit, he didn't stumble when he regained his footing. If he had, his father would have been on him like a snake on a mouse and he knew it. Finding Sam be damned, John would have had his retribution first._

"_Then," softly, silky with anger. "Why are you still here?"_

_The grip on his shirt was released and he went directly on autopilot, gathering his duffle with only a mild hesitation when he grabbed the Impala keys, afraid that his father would make him go without her. He had almost made it to the door when John's rumble cut through the quiet of the living room, his tone still silky and dark, his barely controlled rage bleeding through the angles of his voice._

_"Dean."_

_"Y-yeah, Dad?" Hand on the doorknob, not daring to even turn around and look._

_"You know what happens if I find him first - or if he's dead."_

_Dean could feel his insides curl in cold protest, a sweat breaking out between his shoulderblades. He knew...he knew and he'd eat a bullet first._

_"You have two weeks, Dean. Find him - or..."_

_Or don't bother to come home again._

_He nodded once and beat feet, fear and sorrow throbbing a steady tattoo against the tattered walls of his chest._

_Roger. _

_Loud and clear._

**0-0-0**

**11:14AM**

It felt good to get out and stretch his legs. The truck was a thing of ancient beauty, but she was hard on the body for long drives, so when Birch (or 'Twig' as he insisted he be called) pulled over at a rest stop just outside of Peoria, complaining that Dean's 'coffee is runnin' right through me' (never mind that they had made three stops for said coffee) he was more relieved than irritable about it. He needed to catch his breath, clear his head some and figure out what he was going to do from here.

What he was going to do after the job.

Because he was going to do the job, he didn't really have a choice by this point - he just hoped they didn't catch up to him. He had plenty of leadtime, but something deep inside told him that it wouldn't last long, not at all - and he just wasn't ready. He didn't know if he ever would be. Having your utter lack of usefulness, of being needed (of being _Dean _again) rubbed into your face. Well, it was too raw, it was too much - especially when memories of Hell were creeping eerily close to the surface, making his reality _here_ too surreal and almost gray in comparison.

He fingered the second sim card in his pocket, a small smile on his face as he thought back to Sam's ingenious idea of evading Gordon by switching out the cards in their phones. It hadn't worked, but it was a helluva plan and it should have worked to all intents and purposes. They'd just under-estimated the enemy and how well he had learned the Winchesters and their ways.

Didn't stop Dean from using that trick the first stop they made, buying two cheap throw aways (what he always thought of as burn phones) and switched out the sim card in the rest room while Twig filled up at the pump. He even chuckled while he did it, crushing the old card under his boot before flushing it down the toilet, wondering if Sam would even think that Dean remembered. Sam was always so damned smart, always thinking, always improvising - even before he went to school he had known what he had wanted, always had.

Even then Sam was forging ahead, thinking ahead, making himself fit into a life without his brother. Dean could dig it, Sam had been doing that since he had first learned to walk - just took Dean almost his whole lifetime (not to mention however long he had been dead) to wrap his head around it. But that was _his_ problem, not Sam's. Seems he had a lot of problems that had nothing and yet everything to do with his brother. And since he could no longer be Dean, be the big brother - it was high time for him to take his stupid shit elsewhere. Because if he couldn't be the man that Sam could trust, confide in and lean on, then he had nothing. He _was_ nothing.

And the last thing he needed, the last thing _Sam_ needed - was another weight around his neck.

He rolled his shoulders, trying his damnedest to shrug off the maudlin turn of his thoughts as he strolled over the open park-like area of the rest stop, his boots crunching through the powdery fall of leaves scattered across the washed out green of the lawn. He wanted to turn on his phone, call Sam and make sure he was okay. Call him and beg for his forgiveness at being such a girl and crawl back to his brother's side, but he knew he couldn't. What he had seen...there was just no turning back from that. He didn't fully understand it, wasn't sure he wanted to understand - but if he stayed with Sam, let his baby brother talk his way around this utter betrayal, it would all slide straight to Hell and he'd let it. God help him he would and he wouldn't think twice about it, either.

So he walked, stretching his legs, letting his thoughts flow into a beautiful hum of nothing as he played with the flap of his cellphone, almost afraid to turn it on, but knowing this was the perfect opportunity to make the necessary phone calls to get this case rolling. Because if he walked in there unprepared, it only gave them more time to catch up - and gave him less time to get away clean in the middle of a job. He needed to focus and thinking about Sam was distracting. It was a hard habit to break, but it was one that needed breaking.

"Focus, dammit. _Focus_. Poltergeist, two people killed, poltergeist, two people killed."

He found he was walking a figure eight around the small clearing, eyes on the toes of his boots as he shuffled through what few facts he had gleaned from Singer's phone call and how he was going to go about getting more information without putting himself in line to get caught by Sam or Bobby. Phone calls alone generally didn't cut it, people wanted to see who they were talking to, get a face fixed in their minds when giving out information that they would normally not give to anyone outside their professions, if at all. There were always ways around this of course, the standard methods that any hunter employed to be able to do the job.

Usually he would go to the library and look up the history of the house there or even to the courthouse if the library didn't keep such information, though that might not be possible with him being on the run and all. Then there was the sticky problem of getting around city hall and the burial records of whoever was kicking up the shit inside the house - something that also generally required you to show your face. But showing his face in this instance meant that he only got closer to being caught - it gave them times, locations and a whole host of other advantages that made his head ache and his mind weary. He had to find a way around all of that, stop the spirit from causing more problems and get the fuck out before Sam and Bobby caught wind of him, because dammit - they would know sure as shit he was going to do this job, hell they would _count_ on it - and he had to assume that they already knew what he had done, that he had tucked his tail between his legs and run away like a fucking pussy.

Thinking of it like that made him disgusted with himself all over again. What was he thinking? That if he ran off it would solve everything? That he could even stay away? In the warm light of the growing afternoon, his decision seemed rash, foolhardy even. Sam was all he had, all he knew - if he just abandoned him like that...

'_Like he's abandoned you, time and time again_?'

"Shut up," he muttered to himself, the staggered figure eights he was walking unconsciously drawing tighter together. Pace, pace, pace, turn. Pace, pace, pace, turn. "Just shut up."

'_Make me_,' his inner voice snarked, but fell silent almost obediently, though he hardly had time to draw a breath of relief when an image swam into his mind's eye - the look on Sam's face when he saw him, when he knew he was caught. The disgust, the resignation and the 'I-don't-give-a-fuck' air that he wore around him like a shield. It was bad enough, what he had been doing - but the way he looked at Dean.

Like he was a stranger - or worse, an enemy.

"Fuck." He halted his errant, bedraggled pattern across the six by six patch of grass, dropping his chin to his chest as he tried to pull himself together, stop that relentless ache from spreading through his chest, blindly studying the mashed and torn destruction his boots had left behind.

It was time to improvise.

Understatement of the year. And a flatout joke. Sam was the thinker, the guy fast on his witty feet, Dean was just...he was Daddy's blunt little instrument, wasn't he? And a fat lot of good it had done him over the years. Maybe it was time to change his spots so to speak, allow his brain instead of his mouth do his thinking for him. He let his thumb graze over the sharp plastic/metal chip in his pocket, as if rubbing it could get his grey matter gears out of neutral.

A plan, he needed a plan.

'_Think fast, asshole_.' That small, nasty-tempered voice taunted, and before he could will enough breath to mutter for it to fucking shut it already, he caught movement out of the corner of his eye. Twig was coming out of the visitors building, an crumpled ancient roadmap clutched in his right hand, heading towards him, his gait pretty spry for a man of his years.

Dean blew out a breath and dragged his gameface on, shoving Sam and all his stupid, overly complicated baggage to the back of his head where it belonged as he dredged up a smile for the old man, feeling alarmingly pleased to see him, though he had only known him mere hours. He tried to not examine that too closely, his sudden fondness for an average civvie, but it made a nice distraction from his brain chewing itself to death over the hot water he had gotten himself into.

"Hey Twig, you about ready?" he called out when Birch was in range.

"As I'll ever be! We're about fifteen minutes out from the city. I just have to get it figured on where exactly we're going."

"Well, let me hit the head and we'll hash it out, okay? We might get lucky and not have to hit any main roads. I hate trying to drive in a city during lunch hour," Dean grinned. "Takes forever to get anywhere."

"Well, I'll meet you in the truck, young man - just don't take forever, okay? You ain't gettin' no prettier, I assure you."

"Oh-ho!" Dean laughed, pleased when Birch's eyes twinkled mischief at him. "I'll be sure to hurry up. You wanna grab another coffee on the way out of here?"

"Naw, just a coke outta the machine - you want one?"

"Sure, Twig - just a regular one. I have no need to watch my girlish figure," Dean snarked, anticipating the old man's retort before it happened. Birch only looked slightly put out at being beaten to the punchline, his grin crooked as he swaggered to the vending area, digging change out of his pocket. Dean spun thoughtfully on his heel, starting off on the same path Twig had just come from, laughing under his breath at Twig's parting shot -

"No more'n two shakes there, punk!"

He threw him a thumbs up, other hand shoved in his pocket, playing with the sim card, pulling it out and letting it roll over and around his fingers as he walked. It always helped when he let himself detach, let his mind roll the problems he had in front of him over and around (like the card in his fingers) without any aid from him - having something in his hands while he did this usually let him disconnect and let it happen, and this time was no different. He had barely hit the front doors, making a beeline for the men's room when the ideas started to form, then take cohesion in his mind. Now he had a plan and a way to execute it - if Twig would help him just one more time. Asking would be harder than getting the actual help, he knew - but this was the new Dean, right? He had the means, he had the pattern to follow and now?

Now he had work to do.


	5. Chapter 5

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Three**

**Part One**

**'Did It All For You'**

_**You're such an inspiration for the ways that I would never, ever choose to be - Oh so many ways for me to show you how your savior has abandoned you**_** - A Perfect Circl****e**

_"Remember what I taught you - remember what Dad taught you-"_

_No, Dean, I can't - you never taught me how to let go, just the opposite. You taught me to hold on, tight, tight, tight and_ never _let go - never let them win._

_He'd never say it. _

_He could feel it stick in his throat, Dean's eyes bleeding deep calm and love - such_ love _and he couldn't take it. The green glowed deep within, keeping all the secrets he could never share - and here soon..._

_Here soon he'd never share them_ ever _- and this was not how it was suppose to go!_ _He could save him - turn the clock back, just a few hours, a few_ days _and he'd make it happen! He could do_ anything _- Dean said so and Dean never lies, not to him anyway, not about things that were important._

_He held onto the bone handle of the knife, knuckles white with the force of his hold, knowing that here within seconds, they were going to rush that door and make their own miracles, like they always have - and he could save Dean and they'd never, ever die,_ never _and Dean wouldn't have that Look, that look like he was bleeding, like he was dying already and -_

the claw marks crawled up to his throat, the deep green that meant safety and love and big brother and **DEAN** bleeding away to ashy grey and then nothing - like a light-switch had been thrown and now Dean didn't exist. Almost as if he had _never_ existed and that wasn't right, it wasn't fair, because he was _here_, here in his arms and he was still warm, he was still warm so Sam could get him back. He waited, see? He **waited**, and -

- _just waiting for them to come, to come and bleed him and take him away from him and dammit, that couldn't happen!_

_"Dean," he could hear the sob in his voice and he tried to choke it back, but Dean was looking at him, that soft sadness and 'I'm sorry' and 'It'll be okay' and 'Sammy' all rolled into one the way he does, the way he_ always _does and how can he live without that? How can he live without someone telling him five thousand things in one look like only Dean can, how can he live without that weight, that warmth that was just for him - because he held no delusions, Dean only breathed because he existed and now...now because he existed he wouldn't breathe at all. And how is that suppose to make sense in the grand scheme of things? How is any of this supposed to make sense?_

_So he gripped that knife, held it tight while Dean filled him with strength and calm through his eyes and those eyes had never lied to him before but they were doing it now, because underneath..._

Underneath.

_Fear and horror and pain and more fear - so overwhelming, Sam dropped his eyes away because he'd never let him_ see_, never let him_ share _and damn it all the damned clock has gotten to its third tone and it's like a cruel joke that Lilith would find the_ one _house that could chime Dean's seconds away, like they didn't matter, like it made no difference and -_

washes of deep maroon, the kind that only comes from close to the heart. That thick, rich oxygenated blood that jets and froths on its way out and its splashed up to his chin, the gore-streaked ruin of Dean's chest making the deep gash across his upper leg look like a mere flesh-wound - and he died with a blank look on his face, like it didn't matter, it didn't _hurt_ and his fucking eyes are lying again, because he had _**screamed**_ and his big brother _never_ screamed like that. But he was so proud because Dean was so strong, he tried to get away - almost did because that's what Dean _does_, he lives to fight another day and the ceiling bears no witness to the deep, lethal carnage the Hounds inflicted on him because they were standing _over_ him and Sam could have almost counted how many there were and there were a _lot_ because Dean was so damned **strong**, he was _**fierce**_** - **and his death was so much slower and more agonizing because he couldn't let go and he _looked_ at him - looked at him before he died, as if he needed to see that _he_ was okay, to get permission to be shredded to pieces before Sam's eyes and he never granted it because he _didn't_ have permission and it wasn't okay! He couldn't just _die_, he was _**Dean**_, he was father and big brother and mother and best friend and -

_"Sam..." _

_But that wasn't right, Dean didn't speak to him after that twelfth chime, not directly, anyway - he had rolled his lower lip, quirking that smile that was a mere shadow of all the ones before it and had_ moved_, moved faster than Sam had ever dreamed and he had taken his bag of goofer dust out and -_

_"_Sam _-" More of a hiss than a name and he couldn't look, he_ couldn't _because Dean would be standing, his insides falling to his outsides and he couldn't see that, he couldn't look at that - not again. He couldn't see that his brother had lived after all, a shuffling corpse that only brought testimony to Dean's strength, that he had_ lived_, that he would crawl out of his own grave and he would never,_ ever _die and where that had only brought joy and love and a fierce sense of_ right _before, now brought pain and fear and a mewling need to crawl into his_ own _grave and scream and scream and scream and hope he never woke up_ _again_.

_He looked down at the (curse) knife, sure that it would be missing, that all was right (and wrong) with the world and Dean would be in Hell and that he would forever hear his name screamed at the end of long (hooks) chains under the fierce, lightening thick, green-black of a sky that acted like a mirror of Dean's eyes - _

'How do I know this?'

_- and when he_ looked_, when he saw what he held, he could only gasp and shudder, the object that once held so many ties, so much love, so much hope, so many truths and all that he could say in one gesture of true familial love gleamed at him like a coiled snake ready to bite and it was horrifying that such a small thing could bring so much terror and pain -_

_"Sssaaaamm..."_

_He couldn't look. The amulet's little god held him in a piercing gaze, the stippling of purple-red across its lips like a sacrifice, the Ultimate sacrifice and it still wasn't enough - it was_ never _enough because now the Hounds would burst in and rip and tear and gnaw Dean until he was forced to leave, until he was forced to_ DIE_and he couldn't look up at the Thing standing so close beside him, the stench of rot and dirt and old blood caking the inside of his nose, his stomach curling in protest at the sheer mockery of this Thing that would look like his brother, that would_ dare _to look like his brother -_

Like the Thing that dared to look like him now, smelled of him, felt like him, smiled and laughed like him - but Its eyes lied all the time, all the fucking _time_ and he was still so dead inside, so fucking dead and that flare of pain in his back that had bit down when the clock first chimed his brother's End _still_ fucking hurt - so this Liar, this Copy, this Thing that breathed beside him now couldn't be Dean because his eyes lied all the time and were blank and never told him five thousand things anymore and -

_It was reaching for him, reaching to take back what belonged to It, what Sam had robbed It's corpse of and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't let go because it was dead, he was alive and this amulet was_ everything _- this amulet was __**Dean**__ and he wasn't going to give it/him up without a fight. But he knew, deep down in his bones that It would touch him and he wouldn't be able to fight - he_ would _die_ _and the white heat that sang between his shoulder blades would spread until his chest exploded from the terrific fire and pressure and he'd be like Dean, shredded, torn apart, his insides on his outsides and __**ohgodpleasenodon'ttouchme **__- !_

**0-0-0**

**12:13PM**

Sam gasped awake, the sound of his heart thudding in his ears overlaid by the scratchy hiss of the hotel room's heater kicking off. He twisted his torso off the bed, his upper body coming away easily, too easily as he saw there were no sheets or blankets tangled in the length of his legs. He didn't understand for a moment why this confused him, then he remembered Dean and Dean being back home and Dean's propensity, even when half soused and only half-Dean as he so often was here of late (almost like he was too afraid to be _Dean_) to mother hen him most to death whether it was required or not.

Maybe not this time?

In the wake of his nightmare - and boy, it had been awhile since he'd had _that_ one - he wondered, only for a split second, if Dean really was alive or if he dreamed him coming back. It wouldn't be the first time that was for sure.

But as the room cooled by mere degrees, his arms pimpling in the stillness of the air, the past month came rushing back to him, leaving him gasping for a whole 'nother reason even as his heart slowed back to normal rhythm, head clearing, thoughts deweaving in that slow way they had after a bad dream, like they were reluctant to let go of the pain, the uncertainty such dreams left behind.

He let his gaze travel the room and though nothing seemed out of place, there was still the feeling of something missing, something that wasn't quite where it should be. He yawned, caught momentarily off guard by it and swiped a hand through his bangs, swinging his feet over the side of the bed and sitting up, one arm still stretched above his head as a he gawped in surprise at the empty, unused bed beside him.

'_I could have sworn..._'

"Dean?" he called softly, almost afraid to disturb the stillness of the room, even as that stillness unsettled him. His older brother, even at his worst, sick or injured, never failed to leave an impression, no matter where they were, his presence just seemed to fill everything. He wasn't the only one who noticed it, either - Dad had often laughingly joked that they needed to leave Dean behind so he wouldn't 'attract attention' on their hunts.

'_Damn kid just can't go unnoticed_,' John would pretend to grumble, and would laugh when Dean protested in his usual Deanish fashion (half dismay, half arrogant snark), leaving Sam rolling his eyes and struggling not to laugh himself.

He quirked his mouth in amusement, unsure why this particular memory had chosen to surface, but for once the sting of his father's absence was not tainted with exasperation as it usually was. It was a good feeling, though it was one that didn't last as he hauled himself out of bed, noting that the bathroom door was open, light off, the room door was locked as he had left it and there was no sign that Dean had ever been there at all, much less a few hours ago.

He caught himself before he could call for his brother again and scrubbed at the back of his neck, staring at Dean's bed as if it held all the answers. All that stared back was an empty, neatly made bed that had a Dean-shaped dent where he had laid down, jacket slung over his shoulder while Sam had snuck out to -

'_Best to not think of that,_' an inner voice whispered, old-maidish and superstitious even in his own head.

Sam took a deep breath, tearing his eyes away from the rumpled pristineness (wrong in so many ways) of Dean's side of the room, almost relieved when his bladder insisted that he was awake and there were other things that needed taking care of. He shuffled into the bathroom to pee, not even bothering with the light and shuffled out when done, sure that coffee and maybe a bagel would solve everything. Usually did, in most cases - especially if he brought back extra to toss in his older brother's direction (like meat for an enraged tiger). He could be counted to focus on the food first and the ass-whupping later - well, most of the time. And a full stomach and a bellyful of coffee made for a more reasonable Dean in the long run - win/win all around.

He jotted a note on the hotel stationary in case Dean came back and found the room empty, making sure he had his key on him when he headed for the door, though he was sure (knowing his luck) that Dean would have the damned thing standing wide open and waiting for him, all set to chew some ass before he could even unload the goodies from his hands. He quirked a sour smile at that thought and let the door sweep shut behind him, blinking in the brightness of the afternoon sun, startled when he saw the Impala was still sitting almost directly in front of their room as she had been a mere few hours before, her shape dark and hulking even under the serene wash of midday light.

He blinked again and tore his eyes away from her, an uneasiness settling in his gut even as his mind came up with a million and one reasons for Dean to have left her behind while he went and blew off steam somewhere. Drunken and disorderly was usually high on the list - and while that didn't thrill Sam to pieces, it was a good enough reason to make the knot between his shoulders loosen a little as he double-checked the lock on the hotel's door. For an odd moment (some feeling he couldn't define), he found his eyes drawn to the edge of the parking lot, almost sure for a split second that he saw Dean staring back at him, his shadow swallowing him up, dark shape of something familiar slung over one shoulder - but just as fast as it had come the image faded, leaving him chilled and slightly shaken as he turned in the opposing direction, heading towards the convenience store and liquid salvation. No sooner had the image faded than he had dismissed it, chalking it up to being tired and still half-asleep.

Several hours, half a dozen phone calls and one shocking discovery later, it was that image that would haunt him as he made a beeline for the Impala, keys rattling in his fingers as he went to unlock her, eyes straying to that same spot all over again. He didn't see him, didn't see the vision (if that's what it was) again, but it was forever burned into his memory - his brother standing by the side of the road, looking back at him, a dark, familiar shape (his duffle) slung over one shoulder, eyes shadowed and blank as he gazed through him.

**0-0-0**

_There were few questions about the necklace that Dean had suddenly acquired that winter. _

_Dad had asked once where he had gotten it and Dean's answer was so vague he thought his eldest son had stolen it, which Dean and his ever present guilt had let him think. Technically, as far as Dean was concerned, he _had _stolen it - from Dad, of all people - but Sam never saw it that way. _

_Bobby just mixed up who it actually belonged to._

_Sam liked to think it was a gift just from him, but he knew he had Bobby to thank for the way his brother's eyes had lit up, the way he had stammered his thanks as he put it on, like it was the greatest thing he had ever seen, the best present he could ever ask for - and that both warmed and elated Sammy, even as it left him sad. His brother should have had lots of nice things, lots of reminders that he was loved, needed, wanted - but that was all that Sam had to give - and it wasn't even his to give in the first place._

_But children don't let such distinctions get in the way of their happiness, so he kept that joy close to his heart, that he had made his brother smile, that he had touched him in such a small way, but in one that left such a huge impact. As far as he knew, Dean never took the damned thing off (well, voluntarily) and it later came to define his brother, reminded him of who Dean was, who he always would be - _

_So when he died..._

_When he died, Sam took it off for him, wore it close to his own heart and thus carried his brother with him everywhere. It was only fair and right, after all Dean died carrying Sam, keeping him near, watching over him, like he'd done all their lives. And when he was no more he carried Sam Downstairs with him, carried him even on his last breath and it only seemed right to keep part of him safe and close to his heart where Dean always belonged, where he _would _always belong._

_Love always called to love. And so many years ago, he never thought that the love he gave to his brother on that quiet Christmas morning would leave his arms so empty in a field in Illinois almost seventeen years later, his brother's love for him returned a hundred fold. He didn't cry when he pulled the necklace on over his head and walked away to the waiting Impala. He didn't cry when he went to sleep that night every muscle screaming in protest from the strain he had put his body through, digging his brother's grave. He didn't cry when he put that same town in the rear-view mirror less than twelve hours later, the nose of Dean's beloved Chevy pointed towards Bobby's house, the feeling that of a whipped dog, tucking its tail between its legs to scurry on home. _

_It took awhile, but when he finally could take a deep breath enough to shed tears, it had been over a month. The whiskey bottle he had been nursing for the past two hours was almost nursed away and the light from the broken window on a nearby junker caught on the amulet around his neck, making it almost sing with a diffused shimmer against it's brass surface. He froze, waiting for his brother to appear, to take back what belonged to him - to come back home where_ he _belonged, even if home was nothing more than a car that was older than dirt itself and a younger brother who was too drunk to stand on his own._

Sammy_..._

_He could almost hear him. He could almost hear the deep rumble of his voice which called his name, said it was all okay and that he was HERE for him in just that one word and he found himself on his knees in front of his brother's car (never his, always Dean's) weeping, deep silent sobs that shook him so hard he thought he would be sick. He clung to the side of her fender, not sure if he wanted to stand up or just lay down and die, but sure that he was going to come apart if he didn't stop crying these endless tears that wouldn't solve anything - but most certainly would never bring his brother back to him._

_"You stupid_ fuck_. You stupid..._stupid _fucking_ asshole_! Why didn't you just_ leave _me there? Why did you_ do _this to me?" he had screamed, fist wrapped around the amulet to rip it off and throw it amongst the glittering dead hulks that surrounded him. But he never did. He never did rip it off and declare his own love for his brother cheap and fleeting. Just as he never declared Dean's love in return cheap and fleeting - he knew the answer, he had always known. Whether or not he liked that answer really wasn't the point, was it?_

_He threw the whiskey bottle instead, just for the satisfaction of having something to throw and grinned in malice when he heard it thunk off of something metallic and unmoving, his arm aching with the sudden movement even as his other fist tightened down on the godhead, the horns biting into the calluses on his palm. He fell, exhausted, against the side of the Impala, motionless until the light broke over the horizon, bringing the calls of birds back to the world even as Bobby Singer came looking for him, gaze worried even as his voice was rough. Looked like Bobby had had a date with the bottle as well, his eyes fuzzy and pained as he led Sam back to the house, the promise of breakfast falling from lips that had long gone numb._

_It was too much for the both of them, Sam realized then. They were both dancing on the razor of pain - and he just didn't have the strength, the ability, the_ need _to make it better for Bobby, when he couldn't even make it better for himself. He just wasn't Dean - and maybe...maybe that was the problem._

_He left that night, when Bobby was asleep, and didn't look back, his eyes ahead even as he constantly looked behind. He didn't know if leaving was right, he didn't know of it was wrong - he just knew he needed to get away before their combined pain killed him, before it killed Bobby. If the amulet disapproved it never said - its gaze as serene and empty as when Sammy had first given it to Dean on that one Christmas morning over seventeen years ago, leading them down this path of love that spoke of nothing but death, in the end._

_But the amulet had nothing to say on that, either._

**0-0-0**

**3:17PM**

It would be easy for anyone who didn't know them to say he had over-reacted.

After it all, it was only three hours ago he had woken up from a horrible nightmare to discover his brother gone - to leap to conclusions as he'd had would have been foolhardy if he had been dealing with anyone else but Dean.

But it was _Dean_. A little quieter, a little more withdrawn and haunted (and after Dean's little stint Downstairs, Sam realised he was damned lucky to not get a raving lunatic back for a brother) - but no matter what condition, no matter how he had changed, he was still Dean.

And Dean wasn't in the habit of turning off his phone, leaving for almost twelve hours and taking everything but the Impala with him.

No matter what had happened over those four long months he was in Hell, he was still fundamentally _Dean_.

Dean coped by gambling for enough cash-flow to get them to the next town, the next hunt. He coped by yelling, throwing a punch and playing the same five albums too loudly over and over. He coped by pulling pranks, playing the big brother card, eating too much greasy roadside food and griping about so called 'geeky-shit' like research when forced to sit still for long stretches. He hovered, hounded, bitched, fussed and drove Sam crazy. He was a drinker, a fighter and a lover of about damned near anything with tits, long hair and a stripper name. He was obnoxious, lazy at times, sly, fast on his feet, an intuitive hunter and an all around loud-mouthed pain in the ass. All of these things described Dean - it was only the tip of the ice-burg, but it came close.

What these things _didn't_ described was what Dean wasn't. Dean wasn't a coward, he wasn't a quitter and he wasn't a runner. Dean didn't walk out on his family. Dean watched as his family walked out on him, time and again - but he never called them on it, never got angry about it, never stood up for himself - all of which drove Sam to distraction when he'd had too much to drink, too little sleep and too much heartache.

Dean just kept mute, kept driving, kept flirting, eating, drinking and taking down as many evil sons-of-bitches as he could.

But everyone had a breaking point. Even his brother it seemed. Now...now the tables were turned and he had to admit, he didn't like the taste of ashes in his mouth when it was his turn to choke on them. It tasted too much like he had lost before the battle even started - and being a Winchester, well...that just didn't sit too kindly with him. He knew when he walked back in with the extra coffee (black, two sugars) and the extra bagel (plain, strawberry jam in a little packet) that Dean wasn't coming back. He knew that he hadn't been there quite awhile, shoot guessed that Dean hadn't been there since before he had staggered through the door that morning, headache still spiking away in the middle of his skull. That his older brother had probably beat feet long before (Ron, Reggie, Reynold?) had been hauled away by the emergency crew at the ER.

The room just smelled/felt/tasted as off as when he had first left to go get breakfast - even more so since he had shuffled through arms ladened with his peace offering. It reeked of cold and emptiness - and that just wasn't possible if Dean had been in a motel room longer than five minutes. The room would hum with frenetic energy, the odor of soap, gun oil, old spice and that scent that was uniquely Dean permeating the very air in a manner of mere minutes, Dean's personality soaking into the walls the moment he stepped foot into the room - making it fit him, making it his - if only for a little while. That signature, that presence stuck everywhere they stayed at, so even if Dean stomped out to 'get a drink' and leave Sam stewing over something they'd fought about, he still slept in the aura of Dean, safe in the knowledge that his brother would be back, was always there - was always _Dean_.

This was like walking into a hotel room after he was gone. The very air was voided, empty and raw - waiting for something to come and overwhelm it. It sang of something missing and try as he might, Sam could not ignore it. He jittered, thumped his foot against the floor and paced for a whole fifteen minutes before hauling out the laptop, his own coffee now lukewarm going on chilled as he mapped out the town, local hot-spots, police stations and well...he already knew where the hospital was. It was only another five before he calculated the time it would take to get to the nearest bar (too far) or the police station (too close) and started making phone calls - calm at first, inquiring - but increasingly tense and agitated as the next half hour had worn on. No one had seen him, he hadn't been picked up by the police, the hospital hadn't admitted or attended anyone with his description and the nearest diner hadn't had a customer fitting his likeness at all today. It didn't take long to exhaust all the local possibilities and an even shorter time to widen the net and still find zilch.

By the time an hour had passed, he was frantic. Sam knew that technically, he was being irrational. He knew that on a scale of one to ten he was coming out loony - but he had just gotten Dean back from Hell, so he felt he had an excuse. He had just gotten his brother back and his gut was telling him he had lost him just as quick, as much time as it took to snap your fingers - and Dean had vanished. He berated himself for not trying to talk to Dean before going to bed - 'course, if Dean had left before then, it would have been a moot point - but he would have had a fighting chance to catch him before it all went sideways like this. Then he told himself that he was out of practice dealing with his brother, that he couldn't have seen this coming and while that was all true - he also knew he hadn't wanted to. Fuck, he couldn't even look Dean in the face without seeing failure - and he was so busy looking away, he missed the most important thing: Dean was back. Dean was Home.

And him? He was a fucking moron.

So yeah, he knew. His gut knew, his _heart_ fucking knew Dean was gone - his brain was just slow to wrap around it. After all - Dean wasn't the one who Did-The-Leaving. Dean was always the One-Who-Was-Left. Funny how much that ached and enraged all at once. Funny how bad it hurt when you got a nasty dose of your own medicine. Sam had to say he wasn't keen on the taste - but he manned up, took a deep breath and did the last thing he ever wanted to do.

He called Bobby. And yeah - that was a fucking giggle of a phone-call right there.

It was odd how Dean didn't lean on others, didn't need, want or ask for help, unless it came to hunting down his family - then he was the asshole you found punching speed-dial till his fingers bled. But when it came to Sam hunting down his family, it was just the opposite. Sam (also known as Samantha Winchester, famous for 'let's go ask that nice couple for directions' - and getting mocked for it) dug in his heels and left that as the last resort. But it didn't discount the instant relief he felt at hearing Bobby's voice, an almost Pavlovian response that told him it was going to be okay now, that it was all fixable.

Until Bobby essentially laid out for him that this was like slapping a butterfly bandage on a gaping head wound.

It wasn't Bobby's fault and he knew that. _Rationally_, he knew that - but calm and rational seemed to be on vacation. Shit, for all Sam knew they hitched a ride with Dean straight to Nowheresville. Then...then he had found the Impala's keys and things had gotten..._fuzzy_...after that. He remembered losing his proverbial shit, then Bobby saying he had called his brother earlier, losing his shit some more, getting his ass handed to him in five words or less by Uncle Bobby - then getting a location of where Dean might be at (stress on the 'might').

If they got there in time.

If.

A word that technically didn't exist. It was the most abused and least understood word in the English language. It was such a small word, but one that had enough impact to flatten whole civilizations and turn history on its axis.

Sam hated that word. IF. It meant potential disaster, failure and 'no' all in one. When Dean used it (all throughout Sam's rocky childhood up until he crawled out of his own grave) it had always meant 'Not now', 'Maybe one day' and 'Not while I still breathe, bitch'. It was the word that drove him to Stanford and a new life and one that had dragged him back, kicking and screaming for answers when Jessica had died.

It was a stupid answer and one of the most important words ever designed.

He realized he was slipping, sliding back into the horrible numbness that had overtaken him when Dean had died -

_Your brother is Downstairs doing the Hellfire Rumba..._

- and his brain had finally caught onto the fact that the driver's seat had only him to man it, that the seat beside him was forever going to remain empty. His brain understood that (eventually) even processed it as actual information - and his heart had frozen. He had lost a lot of time to Jim Beam and Wild Turkey (Kentucky's Finest Bourbon!) before losing even more time to the arms of Ruby and the pull of his powers.

It had good, using his powers - it felt _right_, even as it felt all kinds of wrong. He knew he had made a promise, but even as he cringed inside from breaking that promise to Dean, defying his brother's dying wish - there was that nasty spark of satisfaction, too. Like he was thumbing his nose at Dean and his damned dying wishes. Almost a 'Nahh-nahh - see? None of this would have happened if you hadn't sold yourself to Hell, asshat!' type of spite that had somehow taken root deep inside his soul, and no manner of good-will, of good intentions could completely erase that little dark spark of hate and hurt.

So he used it. He used all that hate, all that anger, all that crippling hurt and deep, deep loneliness and fear to fight those who had taken his brother from him - to send them back where they had come from (never thinking that they just might go take out their own rage on the very person he was taking vengeance for). He honed and wielded this force that was only growing in strength with one sole purpose - to find and save his brother.

And lo and behold, here comes Dean, out of his grave and back into his own meatsuit - saving himself (okay, with some major help from Above) when Sam wasn't fast enough on the draw. It's not that he wasn't grateful - he had Dean back, breathing, fighting and being a warm solid presence again. But Dean had been changed, he was hardly the man that had raised Sam from infancy - and while that scared him, leaving him lost and unsure, it also enraged him. The so-called Powers That Be saw fit to raise Dean only after he had been sentenced to (Forever) four months Way Down South - but they couldn't have been moved to _prevent_ it? That confused him, it pissed him off and it scared him. There were so few answers to the endless questions that bubbled within him (why was he allowed to sell his soul, why didn't Heaven stop the Hellhounds, why is Dean so different and yet the same - why, why, why?) and it looked as if he never would get an answer from either Heaven or Hell.

And certainly not from Dean himself. Seemed there was a whole new side to his brother that Sam had never seen, had never _wanted_ to see. The only puzzling question that was left behind by Dean's empty seat and lukewarm trail was this - was Dean capable of walking away before, of running from him? Or was this just another fallout from his tour of duty in Satan's realm?

Of course, all these questions weren't going to bring back the last forty-five minutes of blind driving. They wouldn't bring back the moments that passed since he hung up the phone with Bobby (no longer hearing the conversation after the address was given), packed up his duffle and stared long and long across the parking lot, awaiting that vision of his brother before climbing into the car and peeling out of the parking space, sure that he was making the biggest mistake ever by leaving the last place he had seen Dean alive and well (warehouse not withstanding) nothing more than a dwindling mirage in the Impala's rear-view mirror.

And no wondering, pondering and recriminations were going to fill that empty passenger seat - or rewind the clock back to more than twelve hours ago and undo what had been done.

What he had done.

He was pulling over before he actively registered he was doing so, his shoulders shaking even as he fought the blur that ran across his vision, the car too quiet, too Deanless for him to stop himself. Fear, anger and bitterness clogged his throat as he tried to breath through the ache in his chest, willing the tears to not fall.

Dean wasn't dead, he was just...lost for a moment. A moment in time, that was all, just a moment.

Sam wasn't going to fail him again.

**0-0-0**

_When Dean showed up on his doorstep, he didn't know whether he was happy or pissed._

_He had finally done it, he had gotten away and made a life for himself and his old life caught up with him just that quick. Two weeks - less than two weeks and here was his brother, coming to drag him home again. _

_Okay, yeah - he was squatting in an abandoned trailer with a dog that he had found wandering around outside looking as starved and lonely as he was - but he was doing okay for himself. Well, as okay as could be expected for a fourteen year old runaway on his own for the first time - actually better than most, because he had the skills and know-how to take care of himself. And he was away from Dad and his endless quest for vengeance, his endless drills and orders and moving from place to place. He was away from the never-ending family mission of 'Saving people, hunting things' - the whole family business crap. He had a place of his own, money in his pocket from his various wheeling and dealings around town and the dog he always wanted. Never mind he was squatting like they always did, never mind he got the cash from what he had learned from his Dad and Dean and their life on the road - it was all his. And he was finally, finally on his own._

_Okay, yeah - he missed Dean, he missed his brother like a deep wound that ached if you moved wrong - but Dean would never leave Dad, never abandon the family business, so..._

_He had to go on without him._

_He felt bad about how he left, but it being the middle of summer with no school, no real friends he could escape to and skip out on without Dean following, it was the only way. He had already prepacked his belongings before dinner and all that was left was just waiting until the house was quiet and still, slipping out of the window he had spent the last two days WD-40ing so that it raised and lowered without a sound. After that it was a cakewalk, really. He hopped a bus with a prepaid ticket and a smooth lie about being sent to his Grandma's to live (alcoholic parents, what are you gonna do?) and no one took a second look at him as he rode away two states over to Flagstaff, Arizona._

_It was amazingly easy, amazingly fast how it all happened - and it didn't take too long for him to find a nice, quiet place just outside the main city to settle down in. Two days later he came across Bones while waiting for the pizza guy to show up and his 'Life after Dad' was complete. He had already shown his face around the nearest school, getting set up for the fall - when Dean knocked on his door._

_Damn Dean and his damn 'saving Sammy from himself' crap._

_He was startled, to say the least. He had covered his tracks pretty well - but he should have known better. If anyone was going to find him, it would be Dean. His brother just couldn't leave well enough alone, he didn't know how - and deep inside he knew this wouldn't last, he knew Dean would catch up to him - it was all just a matter of when._

_And now here he was, larger than life and twice as real, though strangely deflated and defeated looking on his doorstep._

_That look, the strange aura Dean carried with him forced him to back up a step, all surprise, anger and righteous indignation draining away. He expected (if Dean did show, which he was hoping he wouldn't, not for a long time anyway) for his brother to be angry, for him to be all flying fists and rage and self righteousness. He expected Dad to be right behind him, dark eyes smoldering, jaw set and face blank - but it seemed that Dean came alone and that his brother had left all his anger somewhere else. It staggered him, Dean's lack of fire and pissiness, he looked...scared - and that was enough to send Sam retreating to the couch, body folding in midair until his ass hit the worn cushion beneath._

_Dean hesitated in the doorway, that look of fear shadowing his eyes slowly fading as he took in his surroundings, from the rinky-dinky TV set with bad reception (unless you moved the rabbit ears just-so) to the peeling wallpaper to the busted couch Sam was sitting on. He looked around and fidgeted in the doorway, jumping when Bones barreled out of the back bedroom, barking in joyous greeting at the stranger on Sam's porch._

_Yeah, Bones made a poor watchdog - but a great pet, which was all Sam wanted. All of this was what he had wanted - and now it was going to get taken away again. It was too soon, he had just gotten comfortable - and Dean was going to take it all away and drag him back to the life he didn't want, to the home he had no place in. That was enough to get the shaky, scared uncertainty that had taken root in the pit of his stomach to dissipate and the anger to take hold again._

_How did he dare to show up here? To haul him back to that horrible life that was just going to get them all killed in the end? How could Dean do that and just say he cared for him, that he was just watching out for him, when he was coming to take him back to such an awful existence? It wasn't living, it wasn't_ normal _- and it was so far from what he wanted, from what he had planned for himself, it really wasn't funny. He didn't want to look on while Dean died on his Dad's watch, doing what he was told, never questioning, always obeying. He didn't want to be there when it all came crashing down around their ears, mission ended with an unfortunate accident, or a misstep that got one or_ all _of them maimed or killed._

_He didn't belong with them, he never_ did _- so why couldn't they just leave him alone?_

_But Dean just stood there, eyes hollow and dull as he took in Sam's home, his daydreams and wishes come to life. He looked out of place, so dark, solid and surreal against the arid, desert backdrop - like a fallen angel displaced on the surface of the world, that Sam actually felt awkward, antsy - which only made him angry all over again._

_"Why are you here, Dean?" His voice squeaked on his brother's name and he could feel his face redden in embarrassment. He bit off any other words that formed on his tongue, realizing that anything else said would just give Dean more of an opening for treating him like a little kid. He wasn't five anymore, he wasn't Sammy anymore - he just wanted to be left alone, to have normal - his brother knew that,_ should have _known that. It was important, more important than anything else._

_Dean startled again at the sound of his name, not even seeing Bones as the dog whuffled around his feet, his hands useless and empty at his sides as eyes found Sam's, his mouth a thin white line as he looked at and through him. Sam shivered in the heat blasting from the open doorway, but found he didn't have the voice to tell Dean to come in and shut the door, sit down - anything, anything at_ all _- because he didn't know this guy, he didn't know the look in his eyes or how he was standing so still. His anger had dried up again and the emotion that welled up in its place was fear and sadness - he was looking into the future,_ Dean's _future and it was like a shock of cold water down his back. He didn't like this feeling, he didn't like this 'knowing' at all - it left him breathless and distant inside his own skin - and why wasn't he fucking_ moving_? Why didn't he say something?_

_"Dean -" His voice cracked again, but he didn't care at all this time. He was still angry, still pissed at having his happy place invaded, having all that he had fought for yanked out from under him again, but he was also afraid. For Sam right now, he realized that something had happened deep inside, was still happening - and that he shouldn't be feeling this fear, that he shouldn't be seeing Dean the way he looked now and feel that terror, that ache that screamed of wrong and hollow and voided. He knew that something had changed - and that if Dean had come five minutes earlier, or five minutes later - he wouldn't be feeling this, wouldn't be so aware of how the world tilted when he looked at his brother's face. He would have been whining and pissed and kicking and screaming as Dean dragged him out by force under the baking Arizona sun, childish petulance falling from his lips as his brother hauled him home, silent, silent and unmoving - and Sam would have never seen it._

_He didn't want to see it now._

_He longed for this terrible, adult feeling to fall away, to leave him fourteen and confused and angry all over again. Instead, he just felt sick and cold - his insides as empty and useless as Dean's hands as he stood in the doorway looking through him and seeing everything. After what seemed an eternity (but he rationally realized was just a few seconds) Dean took a breath, eyes unfocusing for a mere fraction and Sam was left to watch in a terrible awe as Dean's walls closed back in, the open rawness and wrongness that bled out of his soul through his eyes seeped away and he was left with just Dean again, weary, slightly pissed off and jittery - but all Dean. He wondered deep down if he had never seen Dean's soul because Dean had never allowed it, if his brother had kept himself hidden so well that he had always just assumed he knew him inside and out, leaving it at that, content that he had the whole package - and contemptuous because there wasn't much to that package._

_And that only made him feel worse. Because if Dean kept himself wrapped that tight, this little slip spoke volumes, even to him - how tired, how scared and worried he had made his brother - and now...now he felt like shit. He should have known that skipping out the way he did was going to be hard on Dean - his brother was so wrapped up in him and his welfare he never took time to know himself all that well and from what little Sam had seen he figured he was worth knowing._

_And that was yet another terrible revelation and one that he'd rather not have. He'd take being Sammy again, he'd take being Dean's pain in the ass little brother and not knowing that there was more to Dean than he thought previously. He wanted it to rewind back five minutes and take all this knowledge away_ _- and in that moment, for that one short, split second, the childish petulance he had wished for rose up and choked him._

_He wished Dean didn't exist._

_And he saw by the flicker in Dean's eyes that he had seen that on his face - that he_ knew _- and swallowed it back behind those walls that hid his soul._

_He was mortified, angry all over again - but at himself this time. Dean didn't deserve that, certainly hadn't deserved to see it - to see it and just_ accept _it. And that one moment, that second was gone, wiped away with anger at himself and the screwed up mess his brother was that he could just accept that the child he had raised had wished him out of existence and keep looking at him and loving him - and it wasn't_ right_!_

_"Sam." Tired, worried and relieved. And maybe, just maybe a hint of sadness. "C'mon, Sammy - time to come home."_

_Sam shook his head, tears welling in his eyes and stinging down his cheeks - but not for the reason Dean would expect. Not because he was caught and had to go home, though he was still angry and sad about that, too. It was because he couldn't step back and make this place happy again. Dean had tainted it with sorrow and knowing and wrongness - and there was no going back. He stood, suddenly tired himself and not willing to fight or dig in his heels and be little Sammy Stubborness as Dad had taken to calling him lately. He nodded once, turning towards the back of the trailer to get his stuff - the stuff he never unpacked because he knew, even then, that he wasn't staying. Not really. Not_ forever_._

_He nodded and acknowledged that he was caught, his heart heavy with all that he wanted, all that he knew and all that could never be said - because Dean wouldn't hear him. There was only one thing to say, it was expected, it was known - and with all that he had found out in under two minutes, he knew it would hurt - but he had to say it anyway, keep the secret he saw in Dean's eyes held jealous and close to his heart._

_"It's Sam."_

_And he retreated to the cool of the bedroom, Bones tagging close on his heels, past the shadow of his brother that loomed in the open door._


	6. Chapter 6

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Three**

**Part Two**

**'I'm Zero (**_**Don't Waste Words With Me**_**)'**

_**Even though you're well intentioned, one or two or three things you mentioned - Leave a taste familiar to me so - Even with a slight sarcastic, a ripple in a voice elastic - I could crack the slightest code of woe**_** - Union of Knives**

**3:28PM**

Sam gasped himself out of his daze behind the wheel of the Impala, his tears rapidly drying as an eighteen wheeler thundered past, the Chevy rocking in the wake of its passage. He could feel time slipping through his fingers, the weight and urgency to get to Dean like lead in his heart and limbs, the tips of his fingers tingling with electric sparks that spoke of fear and loss of special moments in time.

And he had done it to himself.

Even as he begged for Dean, for his brother - he didn't _want_ to know his brother, not really.

He asked Dean to be his brother again, to just _be_ brothers so many months and so long ago, with Gordon and death breathing down their necks - but fought it when he realized what it meant. It meant being Sammy, Dean taking the lead, calling the shots, being the eldest. And when he fought back, Dean retreated, closed his walls around his soul again, confused and angry - because wasn't that what he wanted? When the truth was, Sam didn't really know what he wanted.

He wanted Dean to be Dean - but he also wanted to learn to fend for himself, to be the older brother when push came to shove. But he couldn't have it both ways - and while he knew that, he knew that it wasn't possible, he fought to get it that way. And he lost so much precious time. He was looking so hard for the end, looking for a way out, around and through it - he missed living those final days with Dean.

And that was all on him.

Oh, he wanted to blame Dean, wanted to make it all his fault - but that was unfair and untrue - and in the end, that was what led him to the crossroads in the first place, when Dean was barely cold in his grave. He wanted to take it back, take it all back - just rewind the time and enjoy what he had left with his brother, even if it was only a year. But he had known, even then, that it was impossible - just as he had known it was impossible the first time he had seen Dean, truly _seen_ him for what he was underneath all the snark, crass bullshit and macho bravado. He couldn't take back that moment, that time and rewind it. It was a child's fantasy, that hope, that wish - a daydream and nothing more. No one, nothing could make him unsee what he had seen - just as nothing could have brought back that year he had let fall away so easily.

He had no idea why he remembered that wonderful and awful time (why now?), why it shone so clearly in his mind's eye, but now that it had, he wondered how it had ever slipped away. That crystalline, brilliant moment where he had actually seen his brother, truly _seen_ him - and he had let it fade away just as fast as he had found it. He knew why, though. He was too young, too overwhelmed with everything that it took to exist and breathe and be Sam Winchester, youngest of the clan and least of them (though Dean never saw it that way, he was sure). His head, his _heart_ was too filled with that to truly comprehend and deal with what he had learned, so he let it ebb away, let it fall into the fog of nightmares and never really looked at it again.

Until now it seemed.

It had been the first time he had run away, but it wasn't the last - and now (with the understanding and maturity of a full adult) he wondered what he had been running _from_. From Dad? From the family mission? Or from Dean and what he could never allow himself to remember - but could never truly forget.

He sniffled and swiped under his eyes with the heel of his right hand, blinking in dismay at the overgrown weeds that loomed up on the passenger side of the Impala, fully awake and aware for what seemed like the first time in months. He took a deep breath, letting it expand his chest until his ribs and throat ached with it, then blew it out slowly, the feeling of waking from a really weird and frightening nightmare still clinging to the edges of his consciousness as he surveyed the calm and sunshine beyond his windshield, the open road winding ever on in front of him.

He felt...at peace. He felt awake. And he felt determined. He was going to find his brother - he was going to get to know the man, to know Dean Winchester and he would never know regret like this again. He was sad at all that he had lost, how much time he had let trip-hammer by him while he tried to become something other than Sam Winchester, someone other than Dean's brother - because even as that title, that knowledge was limiting, it was also freeing. He was the only one with that hangup, with the block getting in the way of them being brothers - and he was the only one who could remove it.

And that right there? That knowledge? Was freeing, even as it had its own limits. He knew how to be happy with himself, how to be happy being Sam - shit, even Sammy. Now he just had to quit wasting precious seconds by the side of the road and let Dean know this. Find some way to tell his brother how much he loved him, all of him - the good, the bad, the hidden and the known. Break past the barriers that Dean built around himself, that he used to protect his soul from his harsh world under the guise of protecting others and get to know who his brother truly was - because he had a feeling he was in for a pleasant surprise. He had always known Dean to be a good man, to have a good heart beating under those rockabilly layers he insisted on wearing - now it was time to show his brother what he knew and get him to accept that reality. Because he had a feeling that getting Dean to accept his own inherent goodness was going to be like asking the mountains to go to Mohammed.

Though the mountains had never dealt with Sam (Sammy) Winchester, had they?

He pulled in another breath and felt a smile tug at the corners of his mouth, even as his head started to ache from the bright spike of sunshine that fell into his eyes. Normally, that would have annoyed him, but instead of being pissy about it, he just dropped the visor so that it shielded his eyes and put the Chevy back in gear, absently noticing that she was getting low on fuel. That meant a stop and one that he could scarce afford to make, but he had just killed ten minutes he couldn't really afford to kill either, whilst tripping down memory lane. He figured he'd just make up the time - for once he wasn't going to be sorry that he had lost those few minutes. He had rediscovered something long forgotten and...he had found _himself_ again. He had a feeling he hadn't really known himself in a long time, that he hadn't truly been _awake_ for a long time either - and the feeling was too good to begrudge himself those few minutes, precious as they were. He would find Dean, come Hell or high water - and he would then take more precious minutes fixing what had been broken between them.

He patted the old girl's steering wheel, easing her back into drive and putting her wheels back on pavement where they belonged. She hummed her approval at his actions and tore up the road, her atmosphere almost content and less lonely than it had been even five minutes ago. For a moment he wondered it Dean was right, if the Chevy really did have a soul - then filed that away in the back of his head, not daring to dismiss it as she rumbled comfortably around him, her nose pointed towards the nearest gas station up ahead. Coffee, restroom break and gas - then came the task of finding Dean. It wouldn't be easy, he was sure, but it could be done, if he just hoped hard enough - and drove faster than that.

He glanced at his cellphone laying on the seat beside him and wished for it to ring, wished for it to be Dean - so when it actually did ring, he jumped ten feet, the Impala swerving slightly towards the next lane before he hastily corrected her, palms suddenly sweaty with fear and hope. He licked his lips, keeping his eyes on the road and his voice neutral as he flipped the phone open and hit Send, settling it against his ear with a white-knuckle grip.

"This is Sam."

"Sam?" He tried to not be disappointed, but it was hard to not be. It wasn't Dean, but it also wasn't Bobby, so...

"Yeah - who is this?"

"It's Travis, Sam - it's been awhile, hasn't it, boy?" Sam searched his memory and came up with a grizzled face to match the name, a smile tugging at his lips as he recalled one of the few Hunters even John had a hard time running off - or pissing off. It had been quite a few years, but he recalled 'Uncle' Travis with clarity, his voice and eagerness as big as his appetite and taste for Rolling Rock.

"Yeah, yeah it has Travis - how've you been?"

"Same old, same old...I uhhh, heard about your Daddy, there Sam. I was uhhh, sorry to hear about that. You boys doin' okay?"

Sam glanced at the passenger seat, its emptiness reflecting back at him and he had to take a deep, calming breath before answering.

"Yeah...yeah, Travis. Ummm, can I ask why you're calling?" He was hoping he didn't sound rude, but usually other Hunters called for one reason and one reason only. Best to cut to the chase and save them both some time.

"Sure, Sam," Travis replied, mildly puzzled but not upset - for which Sam was grateful. "I was wondering if you and Dean could help me out. I kind've managed to get my right paw broken and I'm hunting a creature that requires both of 'em. Kinda thought you and Dean might want to give me an assist on this one - I know how you boys like the interesting ones."

"Normally, Travis, I would love too," Sam said carefully, not wanting to give too much away (as the hunting community was comprised of notorious gossips - hard lesson learned there) but also not wanting to cut ties, just in case. " But I'm kind of in the middle of a case right now with Dean and...well, we just can't drop this one, you know?"

"I understand, Sam, no problem," Travis replied cheerily. "Just wanted to give you boys first crack at it. Maybe some other time."

"Sure, Travis - and thanks, for calling I mean. Keep us in mind, alright?"

He was relieved at Travis' willingness to let it go, but had to rein in his impatience as they exchanged ending pleasantries, the gas station he was hoping for looming up on his right. He turned in to the nearest available pump just as Travis hung up, the phone call relatively short for the old chatterbox, but still too long for Sam - what if Dean did try to call?

He was overwhelmed with a sudden need to check and scrolled through the phone's directory, easing the Impala into park as he did so. He was mildly disappointed, but relieved all at once to see he had no missed calls and no voice-mails - though it wouldn't hurt to leave the line free, just in case. He slid the cell into his pocket as he trotted into the station, wallet already out, going on automatic as he got his coffee, the key to the restroom and paid for gas. In less than seven minutes he was back on the road, muscles relaxing as he got the Chevy started back up again, her rumble the comfort it hadn't been the whole time Dean was in Hell. He patted her dash as he merged into the left lane, letting the road guide him to Dean and whatever may lie ahead.

"I know, girl, I miss him, too - we'll get him back," he soothed, placing the cellphone close to his leg for easy access. Just in case - always just in case.

"We'll get him Home."

**0-0-0**

_It hadn't taken him too long to grab his duffle, his meager assortment of clothes and mementos a sad testament to how little he really had. _

_And now that he'd had a taste of all that he ever really wanted, Sam knew his nights would be haunted with it - his dreams of blood and fire and monsters replaced with dreams of safe and normal and HOME._

_He didn't know if he could forgive Dean for that, even with what he had seen. Then again, he didn't know if Dean would forgive him for leaving the way he had, for scaring him, for worrying him - though with his brother you never asked. More often than not, forgiveness was just there, whether it was required or not._

_And sometimes, sometimes Sam hated that._

_He took a few more minutes to say goodbye to Bones - hoping the retriever would find a new home, someone else to love him as much as Sam did - and his heart broke that he was just leaving this wonderful animal behind, his future so rocky and uncertain. He glanced up from his goodbyes to see Dean leaned against the Impala, her sleek black shape parked a few trailers down (which explained why he didn't hear her) one foot tucked over the other as he talked on his cellphone (a recent addition to their weapons and other paraphernalia)_ _his eyes tired and faraway - and everywhere but on Sam and his dog._

_Sam stood there for a moment, watching his brother as he talked, taking in how tense Dean's shoulders were, how thin and travel-weary he appeared. He looked so much like Dean in his leather jacket, scuffed boots and worn blue jeans - larger than life and bad ass as ever (at least, in his mind) but he also looked...old. And Sam hated that he was the person who made Dean look like that, that he made Dean look so defeated and faded._

_Damn him anyhow._

_He trudged closer, duffle dragging the dirt and saw the trunk was popped partially open, ready for him to drop the canvas bag in - and he hated that he hadn't fought more, left Dean unsure as to what his baby brother was going to do. But when Dean looked over at him, voice still low as he talked to whoever, his older brother smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, the cloudy jade lit from within and Sam found he couldn't be angry anymore. That was_ his _smile, the one Dean had just for him. The one that brightened his whole face, that made him look so young and so happy - and it was all for him._

_Sam didn't know anyone else who had a smile just for them and he let himself be wrapped up in it, a smile forming on his own lips as he basked in his brother's warmth and solid presence. It was moments like these where they were the only ones who existed in the world, just Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam - and just like that, the ache and anger in his heart eased and he dropped his duffle in the trunk, closing her up with a muted thunk before making his way to Dean's side, leaning close to him as he relaxed against the heated metal of the Impala._

_Dean nudged him with an elbow, smile still firmly affixed as he assessed Sam in the light of the desert day, his tone still hushed and muffled in the echoing air around the trailer park. _

_Dad. Sam figured that would be who Dean was talking too - there weren't many that Dean had numbers for, but he was hoping maybe it would have been Pastor Jim or Bobby or even Travis. But no, it was Dad - and suddenly he knew why Dean was standing here, looking so old and yet so young all at once and he found it was hard to keep the anger at bay. It was one thing for Dean to come looking on his own (he expected that, he actually did) but if Dean was sent to 'fetch' him, well...that was just different. He didn't know how to explain it, it just was._

_"Yeah...yeah we'll be home soon. Yeah, Dad - I got it." Dean's lip trembled for a moment and he closed his eyes, a flicker of something dark closing over his face before he was just Dean again, having a rather tense conversation with his father. "Yes sir, yes sir - we'll be there in a few hours. No sir. Never again, no sir - I...I understand."_

_Sam looked away as his brother hung up the phone, Dean's whole face pinched and tight as if he was going to cry. Dean never cried, not even when that Wendigo cut him so deep last year and there was blood everywhere and Sam thought he was going to die. To see his older brother so close to actual tears, well - it shook him up, left his own chest and throat tight, his own eyes blinking back tears. _

_It was wrong in so many ways to see that. It was like seeing Dean's soul while standing in the doorway of Sam's trailer. It wasn't meant for him, it was too close, too intimate for a creature like Dean - and Sam tried to show his brother his love for him, his respect for him, by averting his eyes, giving Dean time to pull himself together._

_Dean cleared his throat, the cellphone buzzing hollowly as he hit the End button, boots scuffing in the dirt as pushed away from the Impala, hand warm and heavy on Sam shoulder._

_"Heya, Sammy - Sam. You mad at me?"_

_He almost cried himself, right then. Dean's hesitant correction of his name and his soft tone almost too much. Dean hadn't been here more than ten minutes tops and he already felt wrung out, hollowed out and just plain tired. He wondered how he had made it to fourteen without looking thirty with all that his brother could put him through. John ran him ragged too, but Dean was the only one who could make him_ feel _ragged and plain worn out._

_But he was still Dean, he was still his brother. So for him, Sam could suck it up and try - he owed him so much more than that, but Dean never asked for more._

_"Naw, not mad - not really." He forced himself to look up (though he didn't have to look as far as he had a year ago) and into his brother's eyes, rewarded with another crinkly smile as he did so, his heart easing in his chest when Dean squeezed his shoulder, nimbly guiding him around the front of the car towards the passenger side. "Though I am gonna miss my dog."_

_Dean looked startled for a moment, his eyes drifting until he caught sight of the golden retriever sitting patiently on the front porch, panting happily in the shadowed cool of the overhang. His gaze sharpened and his mouth drew down into a frown, forehead pinched as he looked between Sam and Bones, an idea playing across the tanned planes of his face._

_"Well...we don't wanna leave him here - there's really no one around for miles. Who'd look after 'im?" Said with another squeeze to his shoulder, communicating his approval of Sam's location, his appreciation for his little digs (humble as they were) and so much understanding for it all. "I think we can make a detour - whaddya say?"_

_He heard the 'Sammy' even though it wasn't said and smiled up into his older brother's hopeful, earnest gaze. This was why he loved Dean so, this was why he missed him - even as he was trying to get away from him. How could he ever escape his brother's love for him? _

_And why did he ever want to?_

_"What about Dad?" Haltingly, saddened by the darkness that rose so fleeting in his brother's eyes, but knowing the question had to be asked. It was expected even._

_Dean gave his shoulder an absent pat, fingers catching in his collar, brushing the material in a ruffling gesture before it fell back to his side, those eyes haunted for only mere moments before he was Dean again, Sam's older brother and all around pain in the ass. He looked fleetingly at Bones then back at Sam, a mischievous gleam replacing that flicker of darkness and Sam wished for his hand on his shoulder again, already missing the weight and warmth of Dean's touch - something else that was just for him and him only._

_"What about him?" was the cocky answer - and Sam's heart just about burst with warmth and pride and sorrow and happiness as Dean whistled for the dog, jogging around to open the back door behind the driver's side to let the retriever in. He watched, semi-frozen by the flood of feeling as Dean ruffled Bones' thick fur, making kissing-soothing noises as he got the dog settled and calm in the backseat before making his way back to Sam._

_"Won't he know?" was the only question that he could think of and he was surprised by the deep, joyous laugh that tumbled from Dean's lips, his whole being vibrating with happiness and that Dean-ness he just carried like a cloak._

_"Only if you tell him," was the smiling reply._

_He tried to soak that in, that deep joy and wonder and awe that was his brother (though he would never tell him), etching this moment into his memory as he gazed up into the crinkly, green, green smile that was all his, Dean's eyes saying a thousand and one things even as he never said anything at all._

_"Thanks, Dean." Never adequate enough - but always more than enough for Dean as his brother blushed in pleasure, averting his gaze as his whole body relaxed into Sam's happiness._

_"Don't thank me," said with a nonchalant shrug. "You're the one who has to clean her backseat."_

_And Sam laughed then, all thoughts of his father, of running away, of anger and betrayal and sorrow and uncertainty washed away by the big goofy grin on his brother's lips. For a little while, it would be just him and Dean - and he couldn't think how he could want it any other way._

**0-0-0**

**11:41AM**

Actually, the house was on the outskirts of Peoria in a township called Bellevue (which Dean got a chuckle out of), not in the city itself, which was a plus in oh-so-many ways.

But it did have its downsides, too.

That meant it would be harder to get information on the house, the previous (and current) occupants, the whereabouts of said occupants and the name of the closest occult shop to the house itself.

In reality, the occult shop information was the hardest to get - only because the 411 operator seemed rather unsure on what exactly Dean wanted. But with patience, muttered swear words (with the mouth piece covered) and a heart-felt promise to never call again, he got a good location and everything he needed at his disposal.

He really needed to send Micah and Sydney some flowers and season passes to the Huskies. Without them he still would have been at square one with the Bernstile house. He now knew that the previous owner (and the most likely suspect) had been an old man named Russell Tomkins and he had died while in the house, his estate liquidated immediately after and used for his cremation as he'd had no reported living relatives to bury him.

According to the (extensive) records he had been an ornery old bastard, too, before he bit it. Constant calls to 911 for various minor complaints, ranging from vandalism (kids walking across his lawn) to neighborhood dogs and their barking. Seemed he called emergency services at least three times a day - and when he didn't call for two days, the cops came out to see what was wrong with him. Knocking on the door didn't roust the old fucker, so they found a way in and after a search of the house, discovered his body in the attic. He had been stone-cold dead for two days - a stroke had gotten him while he'd been paddling around up there in the summer heat, half naked and covered in Vaseline of all things.

Seems it was still sensational enough (in the clerk's offices any way) that they were more than happy to share the information with a fellow clerk on the other side of the river - they didn't ask which river, Dean didn't tell - and he got deluged with information that he normally would have to flash a badge to get. He in turn shared a cock-and-bull story (that was actually based on a case he had worked five years ago) and a fun time was had all around as they happily spilled that the current occupants already had the house up on the block, the 'For Sale' sign firmly affixed to the front lawn. It had been empty for a year - so that settled the problem of getting any civvies out of the way.

He noticed that Birch just let him make his calls and ramble into the phone without so much as a twitched eyebrow or question. That was a relief in many ways, but it would make things harder, too. This was easily a two man job and Dean was one man down. He had to figure out how to get to the occult shop, get to the house, take care of the poltergeist and beat feet before Sam caught up with him. It would be a squeak and a fine one at that, but it could be done.

Until then, he just had to come up with a bullshit story to try to feed a guy who not only went out of his way to give him a lift all the way to his destination, but did it with a smile on his face. In essence, he had to find a way to get rid of his new friend before he figured out Dean was a ghost-buster and chalked him up as a loony or worse. For some odd reason, he liked Birch - he liked him alot - and the thought of Birch disliking or distrusting him made his heart heavier than it already was. The truth just couldn't happen in this situation, but Twig had heard too much, seen too much for a standard blow-off line of crap and Dean's brain was too wrung out to come up with anything better.

So he sat mute, pen gripped tightly on one hand, doodling along the spiral ring of his notepad, contemplating the loss of the only friend and ally left out of his steadily dwindling supply of them. It was inevitable, he supposed and putting it off was stupid and would only lead to him being more stung when Birch tossed him out on his ass.

He had learned alot about Birch on his drive up (when he wasn't pumping unsuspecting clerks for information, that was). He had learned he was a reformed smoker, he had never drank a drop of alcohol in his life (though he liked the smell of fresh beer), his wife's name had been Nancy and she had passed some unspecified time ago and left him alone with two dogs, one named Raymond and the other named Digger. His brother had died five years ago due to his 'intake of fried foods' and his 'love of wild women' (which made Dean rethink his eating and dating habits). His friends had all passed away as well, except for two - and of those two, one had one foot in the grave and the other had the 'forgetting' disease (the guy with one foot in the grave had been hit by a 'thunderclap' as Birch quaintly put it). So he was pretty much all alone in the world except for a nephew in Arizona and another in Montanoa - both of whom called often, but it just wasn't the same. He and Nancy had never been blessed with children, so he had a big old rambling farmhouse to call his own until the end came for him - which it would, as it did for everyone.

Dean had felt his heart curl in his chest as Birch spit this tidbit out with a cheery wave of one hand, his eyes sad even as his mouth smiled. He had felt a kinship with this old man almost as soon as he had stepped foot into the truck, had even fallen asleep against the side door of the old girl while they chugged along - and Dean just didn't _do_ that, not when a tentative friend could turn enemy so very quickly. He didn't know why he felt so close to Birch, they really had nothing in common except loneliness and it must have gotten really bad if that's how he made friends - just because they were i_there/i_. He suspected there was more to it, to this sudden need to give a shit about someone else besides Sam (to have someone actually give a shit about him), but he never examined such things too closely - only mourned their passing.

And dammit, this one was hitting hard and he hadn't even started the ball rolling on getting that inevitable boot, yet.

"Just let me know when to stop, youngster," Birch intoned softly, his eyes questioning and sad - like he expected Dean to throw _him_ over. You know 'Thanks for the lift, you can get on your way you old fuck' type of line as they parted ways.

God, he would _never_...but Birch didn't know that, did he? He hadn't really said anything about himself - really felt like there was nothing _to_ say. I mean, how do you explain yourself when all you have done all of your life is safeguard your brother and hunt monsters? Can't even get into the 'theological' discussion of Hell and everything that stemmed from (and before) that - and beyond those things, there really wasn't much to him, not _really_.

And dammit, he was not going to get morose and depressed over this shit.

But he also wasn't going to fuck Birch over in any way, not the way he usually did with civvies - and not the way Birch was expecting. That's kind of why he felt so heavy and sick to his stomach - as always, his gut was way ahead of his brain. He was going to tell Birch the truth, tell him what he was here for and damn the consequences. Though he knew what those consequences were, he knew he was going to lose this guy and not in a pleasant way. But that was going to happen anyway, right? Bullshit story or truth, he wasn't going to have a friend by the time this conversation was over, so why was he delaying it?

_'To hold onto what I've got, just for a little longer - I don't have much left beyond that.'_

"Dean? You okay?"

'_No, Birch, I'm not. I haven't been okay in a very long time_.'

"Yeah, yeah - just...just gimme a minute, 'kay, Twig? I just..." He shrugged one shoulder, swallowing hard as he tried to stem the wave of depression that rolled over him in a black cloud. He was going to lose Birch, he had lost Sam and as a consequence, he had just lost Bobby. When he got this job done, what came after? He had no skills, no real talent at anything besides shooting a gun or shooting off his mouth, neither of which paid the bills.

He couldn't continue hunting, because Sam or Bobby would find him - and how could he face them? How could he face his old life, when even his brother couldn't trust him with the truth? When he couldn't be trusted?

'_There's a reason for that_,' something deep inside whispered. '_There's a reason but you are too much of a coward to face it - even what Sam is doing now is nothing compared to what you did in Hell - and you know it, you know it and you judge him, but you are nothing but a hypocrite and a fucking_ coward -'

So, he wasn't so much running away from Sam as himself, then.

Fat lot of good that would do in the end.

Birch sat patiently, fingers drumming a tune out on the worn leather of the steering wheel, lips pursed in thought as he pulled into a parking lot, willing to wait out Dean's move. He face was a study in calm acceptance, his eyes looking tired as he waited for the young man to give him the brush off - and Dean could feel something beneath his ribs squeeze again, making him as weary inside as Birch looked. This feeling was getting old. He knew he wouldn't shake it any time soon, but he wished there was a better way to predict his own sudden shifts in mood - it was fucking with those around him and it wasn't doin' him any wonders, either.

"Birch-"

"Dean -"

Simultaneously.

They both laughed, tension easing slightly, Dean's mood lifting as the twinkle reappeared in Birch's eye, though his mouth was still twisted in doubt, small tinge of sadness in the set of his face. Dean looked away, feeling almost like he was intruding on the older man's thoughts, his disappointment in himself and how this whole mess was going to end as strong as ever. This was going to be bad - no matter which way it played it, it wasn't going to end pretty.

Might as well get it over with.

"You, ahhhh...you first, Birch." He coughed, still unable to look the old man in the eye.

"Age before beauty, heh?" Twig quipped, but it fell flat between them, the silence once again oppressive and heavy.

Dean started picking at a loose thread in his jeans, knee bouncing as he waited Birch out, not sure he'd be able to speak now even if he wanted to. He knew he was only putting off the inevitable, but he just didn't have the strength to come right out with it, so he waited feeling every bit the coward he had become.

"I, ahhh, noticed we're back to calling me Birch," the farmer started, voice overly cheery. Dean closed his eyes for a moment, hating that the two of them had gotten to be so damned tight so damned quick - and how the fuck had that happened, anyhow?

"Guess that's okay - you was only looking to hitch a ride, I guess -"

"Birch, it's not like -"

"Age before beauty, son," Birch intoned, a bit of steel in his voice. Seems he'd had to gear up for his side of the talk as well - and he was going to have his say. It looked like Dean was no longer Dean, too - that kinda stung a bit, but he swallowed it back and lifted one shoulder to show that he was listening. "Kinda got a little over-excited, you know? Don't feel bad there, boy - I had a good time. I'm glad you let me trundle along with you on this adventure. T'was good for me, you know? Got me outta the old routine - but you ain't obliged to me in any way. I don't want you to feel you are. Was good to meet you - to take a drive with ya. You don't talk much, but heaven knows I can more than make up for that on my end."

Birch let out a soft chuckle, gnarled hands patting at the old girl's steering wheel in a fond gesture, soaking up comfort from his machine and damn if he didn't understand that. He felt a sudden fierce longing for his girl and the open road beneath them, but swallowed that back, too. It was no longer his to have - he forfeited that right when he laid her keys on the table near the door, the moment he looked at her and only saw a steel coffin.

Birch gave a final pat to the wheel as Dean watched out of the corner of his eye, the old man taking a deep breath as he turned more in the driver's seat to face him, his smile hesitant as he reached across the cab, hand outstretched in that old familiar gesture of friendliness and goodbye.

Maybe he wouldn't have to say anything after all, let bygones be bygones and let the road swallow him back up as sure as it had spit him out. Maybe Birch would forget him, he could always hope for that, if for anything else. He was surprised to have made a friend so quickly, but it did go against the Code - and this must be one of the big reasons why.

Goodbyes sucked.

He reached out to meet Birch's hand, surprised and warmed by the strong grip (at least the old man didn't think he was a pansy) but was caught off guard by the fact ol' Twig wouldn't let go. Panic, anger and calculation flitted through his mind briefly as he considered what was going on, and he forced himself to look at the grimly smiling face across from him. 'Christo' was about to rise to his lips when Birch let go, whatever he had seen in Dean's eyes seeming to satisfy him as he leaned back in his seat, voice semi-stern.

"Didn't your daddy teach you to look a man in the eye when you shake his hand, son?"

And now he had fallen right back into the acquaintance category. Yup, that stung too (though it shouldn't have).

"Yes, sir," he answered firmly, turning again to look Birch in the eye as he spoke. "And to look a man in the eye too, when you speak to him."

Birch grinned at him, the smile lasting a mere second before he turned serious once more.

"There's only one rule I have with hitchers, boy."

"And what is that, sir?" Dean pretended to not see the flinch and Birch covered it quickly, his voice never wavering as he told Dean what the young man was hoping he wouldn't have to hear.

"Before you go, just tell me why we drove out all this way, hmm?"

"Ummm, cause you insisted?" was Dean's sharp retort. Dammit, he didn't want to pick a fight - but he also didn't want to get into the Job with Twig. He just wanted to get out of the truck and let the old man think he was some ungrateful little punk-ass ingrate after all and write him off, already. Was a hell of a lot easier than trying to explain himself - and get tossed out (and maybe have the cops called on him) after all. It was just unnecessary and plain tiring, but Birch was asking, not telling him - so as unpleasant as it was, he'd go with Plan A. The Truth.

"Are you okay, Dean?" Birch asked - and damn wasn't he an observant sonuvabitch. Nope - old Birch didn't miss a trick - and if he saw part of the truth in Dean's face, Winchester was definitely too tired to dance.

"So I'm Dean again, huh?" he deflected, half-smile twitching his mouth. He nodded to himself and rolled his shoulders, quirking his lips in a wry line, eyes bleeding apology. "Sorry...sorry, Twig - my mouth gets ahead of me sometimes. Reflex, you know?"

"That I do." Twig nodded, relaxing at the use of his nickname. Maybe it was all show, all a charade - but it made Dean feel a bit better, just for a fraction of a second. Even knowing what was coming, he felt a little surer of being able to handle it without behaving like a girl.

"And, yeah - I'm fine, old timer. It's just...even with all that you overheard, it's gonna be really damned hard to explain. And...you might not be too happy with me when I get done explaining, so just hear me out before you drop-kick me, okay?"

Birch nodded, eyes unsure but attentive - and damn him he was taking too long to spit this shit out.

"Well...in my family, we uhhh, well we -" Dean flicked his gaze out towards the bright day beyond, his headache coming back full force as he willed himself to look Birch in the eye.

'_Fucking coward_.'

"You see..."

"Do you...do you need help, Dean?" Twig interrupted, voice catching and drawing on that last word before he could stop himself. The old man winced, knowing what that must have sounded like, looking startled when Dean barked out a watery sounding laugh, torn between amusement and that deep well of bewildered depression that was threatening to smother him again.

'_God, why are such a fucking girl all of a sudden, Winchester_?'

"Help," he coughed, trying to get his voice under control. "Yeah, you are gonna think that when I'm done explaining."

He laughed again and shook his head, finally able to muster up the gumption to look Twig in the eye once more. He wasn't sure where he got it from, but he was going to use it. He had to get used to rejection, to being the outsider - there was no Dad, no Sammy, no Bobby to lean on now. He'd better grow up and learn to stand on his own, if he was ever going to - and now was as good as time to start as any.

"Just...just hear me out, 'kay, Twig. Before you decide what you think, before you do anything, just...hear me out." He took a deep breath when Birch nodded, tongue peeking out to swipe nervously at his upper lip.

"Okay...alright, ummm. The reason why I'm here - what I do..." He resisted the urge to drop his eyes, to look away from Birch who was looking back with such openness and sympathy it made his breath catch. "I...hunt...things. It's what I was raised to do, kind of our - our motto, you know? 'Saving people, hunting things'...it's the uhhh, family business."

He did look down then, half-laugh barking out of him as he thought the motto through, side of his mouth twisting into a bitter smile that was more like a grimace, eyebrow twitching up as he tried to contain a sudden surge of dark emotion. The family business - right.

When he dared to look back up again, Birch still had the same expression - open, honest, mildly expectant and kind - and it about near killed what he was going to say next, but he surged on anyway. One foot was in the door, might as well step all the way in.

"The first call was from an old family friend. Seems there's a uhhh, poltergeist tearing things up in a house nearby here - it has seriously hurt five people, killed two and well...it needs to be stopped. I know that the most likely suspect was the owner who died a couple of years ago. It has had a few owners since, but the 'geist has run each of them off - which is kind of a good thing, or else they'd be dead, too. I know what I have to do, I know kind of where to look - but the house needs cleansing before I even attempt to tangle with it and -" He gulped to a halt, breaking his gaze from Birch's, whose expression hadn't changed even with the crazy shit that was tumbling out of his mouth.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry, I'm rambling - I just...I just have this one last job and then..." He shrugged, mouth trembling with the emotions that were always too close to the surface since he crawled out of his grave - was it only a month ago? He shook his head and bent down to gather his duffle, not daring to see the surprise and maybe even anger that Birch probably had crawling across his face right about now. Probably thought he was a fucking loony that he picked up who hitched rides to nowhere for kicks and then got their jollies off of pulling the legs of old men who had better things to do.

"Then what?" came the soft query, Twig's voice heavy and sorrowful, just as Dean feared.

"Then nothing," he replied, eyes between his feet, though he wasn't seeing a damned thing - not really. "Just...nothing."

"I see..." Birch said, tone colorless and neutral.

The truck ticked to herself, occasionally an old cough coming from her dashboard while she settled. Dean squeezed his eyes shut again, giving himself a shake and restraining the urge to laugh as his heart squeezed again. He licked his lips, grimace tugging one side of his mouth again as he got a firmer grip on the duffle's handles.

"Yeah," he whispered, hand rising to the catch on the door. He wanted to say he was sorry, he wanted to say thank you - there were so many things he wanted to say, but none of them were really adequate. So maybe it was time to go while the getting was good.

"Do you...do you need any help?"

Dean froze, fingers loosely gripping the door handle, mind racing while he tried to work out what Birch was saying. After all, he couldn't possibly mean what Dean thought he did -

"I mean...if you need any - I can...help you." Birch's voice started out strong and petered off, unsure when his young passenger didn't visibly react to his words, his whole being as still as stone.

"You can't be...you aren't serious," Dean grated, turning to glare at him, but the effect was ruined by a devastating hope that he just couldn't keep out of his eyes. "Twig, you don't...you just don't know what you are offering."

"I think I do -"

"No! No...you can get hurt. I have no idea why I'm even considering this," Dean muttered, duffle going slack in his grip as he leaned back against the seat, eyes closing briefly while he tried to pull his wildly spinning thoughts together. He needed the assistance - there was no way he was going to get in and out quickly and efficiently without being spotted, not even _mentioning_ the time factor. He was grasping at straws here and here knew it. It was way too good to be true, to have someone that just accepted and was willing to help out -

But the risk was too great. No matter what Birch had done, what he had seen when he was a young man, a soldier - he was still a civilian. Civilians and ghosts just don't mix well, there was just no way to prepare anyone for their first encounter with a ghost - and this one was particularly nasty even as spooks went.

And Birch had done so much for him already. Shit, just even offering to help was way more than Dean could have ever dreamed of. He wasn't prepared for that, he wasn't used to kindness or generosity from strangers, just the opposite in fact - that was what he was used to, that's what he was raised into. But it was so tempting to accept the open hand (even if it could be used to slap him with later). It went against every instinct, it went against his very pride - and wasn't that, really, the whole point?

He took a deep breath and looked Birch in the eye, swallowing back hope and thanks and his damnable pride, his green eyes steady and serious as he studied the old man. He knew a way Birch could help, something that seemed so small in the grand scheme of things - but everything about this job hinged on this one little thing - the bonus being his new friend's safety in the long run. Birch could do him a big favor (which he would owe him _huge_ for, something his mind was more then willing to gleefully point out) and it would keep one Dean Winchester off the radar.

"I should say no. I should say alot of things. You've done more for me in the last few hours than most people -" he laughed lightly, though there was no humor in the set of his mouth. "Please..._please_ don't be fucking with me here, Twig. With what I've been through the past few months, I just don't think..."

He curled his lower lip, shaking his head as he pulled his gameface back on, taking all thoughts, all emotions that could do him in an gathering them into a tight ball to be crammed to the back of his head to deal with at a later time. He needed the help, yes. He could do without it, he really could - but it would make this case so much easier in so many ways. It would definitely make his escape easier. But all thoughts of Sam and Bobby and Hell and what came after had to wait for now, what was going to happen when he and Twig parted ways would have to come after too, it seemed.

He just needed to get his head out of his ass and focus, just this one last time.

"I'm sorry - I'm sorry, you don't need to hear that crap. But, if you really want to help me - you _truly_ want in on this, you've got to do exactly what I say and stick with the plan, okay?" He lasered his gaze on Birch, looking for doubt, for hesitation - and found none. Twig nodded his consent, seeming apprehensive and mildly bewildered sure - but he also recognized the excitement, the thrill that this adventure gave the old man, and while that was good to see, he was going to have to temper it before they started this hooraw. "You with me?"

"Yeah...yeah I am." Birch smiled. It was a sunny, open smile and it made Dean's spirits lift just to see it. "Don't worry - I can follow orders with the best of them, just tell me what I need to do and you can consider it done."

Dean studied him a moment longer, that feeling of 'this is too good to be true' still leaving him reeling, but he was also relieved. It didn't cover the whole host of other emotions that were battering at his walls right now, but relieved and grateful seemed to be at the top - the rest he could deal with later, when he got a moment to breathe.

"I just gotta know, Birch. Why? I mean - I could be feeding you the biggest cock and bull story you've ever heard and you just..." Dean shrugged, mouth twitching with an amused awe. "You truly believe me, just like that?"

Birch seemed thoughtful a moment, his eyes taking on that look that left Dean feeling like he was intruding again, his fingers tapping restlessly along the Chevy's steering wheel. He regained focus a few minutes later and the young man almost recoiled from the steely intensity of the farmer's gaze. If John Winchester has lived to be an old man - that was the look he would have carried everywhere - and the impact of it gave Dean a shiver that ran down his spine and left his toes curling in his boots.

"I've seen a lot of things there, Dean - a _lot_ of things. Probably not half of the amazing, awful and scary things that you may have seen, but I've seen things that would make most men die of fright, or go running home to hide behind their mama's skirts - full grown _men_, mind - and I've lived to tell about them, though I never have. D'ya know the reason I picked you up?"

Dean shook his head slowly, unable to look away from those eyes as Birch talked, their focus so wise and young and yet so old that it left him feeling slightly off-center and chilled. He was glad to feel that, was glad to hear this secret that he would never have heard if he had just gone with his first instinct and left when the leaving was good.

"I saw something in you that I recognized, Dean. I knew the look, I knew the _walk_ - I hate to see it in such a young man as yourself - but something told me, that if I just kept driving, I'd regret it. Do you know what I mean?" He didn't even look to see if Dean had responded, his eyes far away again as he looked at and through the dashboard of the old truck. "I've been riding with you all morning. I notice you don't say much - which is fine, as I said, I can more than make up for that. But what I did see, what I did hear...it's that _drive_, that need to do what is right, what is _righteous_ - even when no one else will. And I told myself, I said...I said 'Birch, you did the right thing'. My belief, what I think I know - isn't necessary, really - I don't know if that makes any sense, but that's what I think. It isn't _required_. You believe it, you know it - and though I've only known you a few hours at the outside, that's...that's good enough for me, you know? I don't know how, or why - but I feel for you as I do my own kin, Dean. That kinda scares me, but it makes me feel glad, too. So, whatever you say we gotta do, how ever you need me to help you out - though I know you'd never have asked - I'd be proud, I'd be _honored_, to do so. Just can't seem to find a way to say it simpler than that."

Dean gawped at him, the urge to laugh bubbling from his belly, halting just below his throat as Birch laid it all out, some of his own thoughts and feelings about the last few hours tumbling from the old man's lips to paint the air between them. He was overwhelmed with gratitude, with sympathy and an odd tingle of joy that he hadn't felt in a very long time.

He had thought at the very beginning of this trip, that it was very odd that Twig had picked him up, he had wondered why - even as he had toyed with the idea that somehow they were destined to meet. Their tentative, though very new friendship, was just too easy, too fluid for it to be anything other than the Fate everyone constantly railed about. Now, it seemed Twig had thought the same thing, pretty much felt the same in damn near every respect. It was too easy, too simple, too quick - but it just felt wrong to try to deny that kinship that seemed there from the beginning, the inherent trust that was just there, like they were blood. It gave him an odd wave of guilt, thinking that way, but it was also the truth - and there was no denying the intense relief that followed on the heels of that guilty joy.

"Damn, Twig." He smiled, letting the laugh slip out a little as a deep, genuine smile lit his eyes from within. "You gonna buy me flowers and candy to go with? I'm not properly dressed, but if we're dating, you need to at least get your ducks in a row."

Birch looked flustered for a moment, then smiled back, recognizing the deflection for what it was and accepting it. Dean got it - he more than got it, he understood it from the viewpoint of a man who had felt the same - who was just as bewildered and thrown as he was, but was as equally pleased and thankful to have someone to call such a friend. Didn't do to reflect too much on it, though - sometimes when you got hit with the big reveals, you just had to roll with it, shrug and move on, secure in your steady footing.

"Well, seeing as how you're running this show, you might as well be the girl," Twig drawled, pleased when Dean barked out a laugh, the incredulous smile still dancing on his lips.

"Good one, old man - so...I have my answers. You're still crazy enough to not kick me out - wanna hear the game plan?"

"Thought you'd never get there punk, all that damned jawwin' - man could pass away before you get to the point."

"Alright, alright," Dean laughed. "Quit your bellyachin'. If you still want in, we're gonna need to get a few things first." He pulled out his notepad and pen, flipping to a fresh page as he started to write a list in his painfully neat print. He paused halfway through, catching Twig's attention with a sudden serious intensity. It was a look that Twig recognized and one he had given himself a few times in his life - and he wondered how anyone could not take this young man at anything other than face value. His eyes said he was a force to be reckoned with, even as they softened in kindness and relief.

"Thank you..." Dean said, so simple, so soft - but it conveyed a whole host of things, just as his eyes did - and Twig found himself happy to be counted this man's friend. It was over as soon as it had happened, Dean back to writing down a list of things in that quick, precise way that seemed to define his whole character. When he was done, he tore off the page near the spirals at the top, folding it in half before turning in his seat to hand it to Birch, page held loosely between two fingers, his mouth set in a firm line that was all business.

"Okay, since you are determined to give me a helping hand - and I still think you're crazy for not kicking me out while you had a chance -"

"Free coffee, son - and free gas." Birch laughed, pleased when Dean broke into a quick chuckle with him, even if it was only for a moment.

"Yeah, yeah - well, as I said, seeing as how you are still with me here, we're gonna need to get a few things. Here's what I need you to do..."


	7. Chapter 7

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Four**

**Part One**

**'Out of Time'**

_**Break the tide that's pushing you outside the place you're safe - don't pretend/Mask my eyes, protect my gaze as the light breaks the day - I pray - **_**Declan Flynn, Brian Wayy**

_Alistair did love the sound of his own voice._

_He would endlessly monologue when he was on a roll and today was no exception. The only major difference between today and yesterday was Dean's utter exhaustion. He just didn't have the mojo, the gumption, the righteousness, the pep and fire that he'd had the day before and the day before that and even the day before that. He intimately knew each piece of his own insides, just as he knew that he would get to know them all again._

_And again. And again. And again._

_There was no end, no solace, no comfort, no warmth in this den of the lost - there was nothing but the shriek of steel against itself, the muted thud of sharp instruments hitting dull bone and the wet slap of fresh blood against the unforgiving surface that he was nailed to. _

_So he listened. _

_He listened (_though he knew he shouldn't_) he waited (_because what else was he to do_) and kept silent (_there was nothing left to give_). He rode the melodious tones of Alistair's Lessons, the rise and fall of his voice one with the razor held so nimbly in his fingers, the song of them both an endless litany of Pain and Blood - and he had nothing to offer but his silence, his own screams too harsh for his ears._

_Even Alistair seemed disappointed with his sudden quiet, knowing it wasn't born of stubbornness, or even new heights of pain. It was built on Nothing, on the hollow ground that was Dean Winchester in chains - and even he recoiled from the deep void that radiated from his favorite victim, withdrawing to his other duties far sooner than he normally would have._

_It had only been ten years._

_The wounds re-knitted themselves over the long hours (_days?weeks?years?_)_ _that Alistair was gone, the only witness to the mending were the deadened eyes of the healed and the endless vacuum of sound that surrounded him. Nothing stirred, nothing raped the mute air with the slightest whisper - and yet, Dean never noticed._

_He didn't feel the fresh vitality of his healed body, he didn't hear the lack of - all was quiet within and without._

_Then - _

_There was a flash of color, a strike of sound in the quiet gloom of his cell. Something that didn't belong, something that was too fresh, too bright for Hell and all of Its denizens._

_Something that reawakened that curl of horror under his skin, that scream of outrage and disgusted offense that was such music to Alistair's twisted, malformed ear, that shiver of pain and guilt that was his constant companion for so very long._

_And that something was mere feet away from him, gazing out from under shaggy, honey-brown bangs, its eyes those green-gold puddles of sympathy and ready disappointment - he knew them so well, but he had forgotten their power, the sheer love and heartbreak they could inspire._

_He felt...he _felt _- and that wasn't right. Not here (_not Here)_ not in this Place, this dreary prison of torment and unending death._

_This had to be a fresh trick, a fresh pain to tease him with. He could feel his heart shred anew, like it was a thousand yesterdays all over again - shatter into millions of pieces under the terrible thought of those eyes holding such disappointment in him, that they could condemn him for his self-imposed (_selfish_) solace in Silence and Nothing._

_"S-saaammm..." He gasped at the effort his own voice took, his tongue weighted and sluggish under his retreat into the realm of the voiceless and empty._

_"Dean," the apparition whispered back - and the world woke back up, pain and heartbreak crashing into his soul, battering against his carefully worked defenses. _

_This was a dream, a hallucination -_ Alistair _-_

_"He doesn't know I'm here, Dean. No one does - only you..." the ghost said, his eyes filled with love and Samminess and pride. "We're the only ones here - you made it. You found a hiding spot."_

_Dean sat up, the nails in his hands, feet and torso sliding out with a sickening ease that would have normally left him gagging, if he wasn't so focused on Sam, on his eyes and his gangly frame and his overly large feet and his warmth and solidness and his little boy earnestness. He came and sat down beside his brother, not surprised that they were sitting in Sam's living room in Flagstaff, his dog (_Bones_) warm and fuzzy and alive against Dean's bare feet, the carpet an itchy tickle of the worn and threadbare. The springs of the couch were threatening to skewer his ass, but he settled back into them anyway, not wanting to be anywhere else but here, with his brother, waiting for the pizza man to arrive with a hot, fresh pizza pie, loaded with pepperoni, sausage and green peppers (_and extra cheese_) - just how they both liked it._

_He slung an arm around Sam's shoulders, close to weeping with terror and joy at the skinny, too-sharp feel of his brother's frame - his bones too large to be contained by a fourteen year-old body just rushing to catch up. Everything smelled of Sam, too. That soft, sunshiny smell, overlaid with cheap hotel shampoo, Tide laundry soap and that unique scent that just whispered 'Sam'. He soaked it in, taking a few minutes to just be with his brother - to breathe in life and joy and Sam - and Sam (_for once_) was content to let him, allowing Dean those few minutes to take in what they had never had a chance to share._

_He let his eyes roam around the sparse living room, the overall effect so sunny and gloomy all at once - the perfect reflection of Sam at that age. From the postcards tacked to the walls, the faded brown-gray drapes over the dusty windows, to the beat up out-dated TV with tin foil on its rickety rabbit ears. It was homely and rundown and ragged - but it was also supremely perfect, so down-to-earth, so_ comforting _that Dean found himself relaxing into the protesting roughness of the couch, his hand reflexively squeezing Sam's shoulder in a show of affection and approval._

_"I didn't want to take you away, you know," he whispered, restlessly curling his feet when Bones flopped more of his heavy, doggy self against his legs. "I didn't want to take you away from what made you happy - there was nothing more that I would have liked than to see you happy, see you be_ you _- but I...I ruined that, I know. I'm sorry."_

_He swallowed past the lump in his throat, shifting in his seat to get that one wayward spring to stop digging into his left ass cheek, the dog at his feet rumbling a soft, whuffly grumble at his sudden movement. Sam was quiet for half a beat, thinking, thinking, always thinking - but his next words were so sweet in that Sammy way, it made Dean's heart ache with how much he missed the boy his brother had been._

_"It's okay, Dean. I was kind of glad you showed up - I missed you," Sam confessed, leaning into his shoulder the way he had stopped doing when he had turned sixteen. Dean had missed that, that closeness, but had never dared to voice it. _

_Dean Winchester (_Dad's perfect soldier, Sam's watchdog_) didn't do chick-flick moments, after all._

_"I missed you too, buddy. You know, you scared me back then - really bad. But it would have been nice to do this at least once - to just...just sit back, enjoy the day and wait for the pizza guy in this kick-ass trailer you scored."_

_Sam nodded, mischievous grin surfacing as his eyes shone happiness into Dean's downward gaze._

_"Sam and Dean -" his little brother started._

_" - and Dean and Sam." he finished, his heart clenching in his chest again, but in a good way - in a way he hadn't felt in a very long time._

_Then..._

_"I saw your soul that day," Sam said. It was sudden, it was startling hearing those words tumble from his brother's lips - so alien and adult from his teenage demeanor. And just like that, grey clouds rolled over and covered the sunshine, a deep chill curdling against the brilliance of the desert heat, electric tingles that precede a storm stirring the fine hairs on his neck and arms, his skin cold with the weight of the clouds outside._

_"What?" Strangled (_like chains around your neck_)._

_"I saw you...I saw your future - and I was afraid," Sam whispered, his voice all conspiracy, as faded as the couch cushions behind him. Dean felt panic resurface when he realized he could actually_ see _those couch cushions through the sharp, scrawny angles of his brother's torso, Sam's visage flickering with the storm building outside the louvred, plexi-glass windows. "I saw the shadows that Dad had made, the shadows that_ I _had made - and it changed...it changed_ everything_."_

_"Sam?_ Sam_?" He could hear the thin thrill of fear in his voice, the weight of Sam against his arm no longer as solid, as real as it had been a mere minute ago. His hands and feet ached with the burn of rusted spikes through living flesh and he trembled against the weight of phantom chains. "Wait! We're...we're suppose to just have pizza, kick back and watch a game - Sam and Dean and Dean and Sam -"_

_"That never happened, though, Dean. As much as we would have both liked that - that never happened," Sam said colorlessly, looking as tired and worn and faded as Dean himself felt. "I just...I wanted you to know that I saw - that it changed things, a lot of things. And for that I'm sorry...I'm sorry I saw you, I'm sorry that it changed things between us, I tried to not let it, but it just_ happened_. I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry for the shadows that I made in you - the shadow that I made you_ be_...what wound you up here - in this Place."_

_"No..._no_!" Dean gritted, whipping around to grab at the air where his brother was. His gore-encrusted hands closed on nothing and the rage and storm in his heart boomed in the flickering sky outside the trailer - the trailer that was fading, crumbling around them. Bones' warm weight was brittle and he was afraid to look down - afraid of the choices that he'd made, of how they could have changed the fate of even the damned_ dog's _life - his fur too limp and matted to mean anything but death._

_He was surrounded by it._

_"No, Sammy - that was never your fault!_ None _of it, do you hear me? I'm sorry you saw that - you should have_ never _seen that - that was_ my _fault!_ Everything _was my fault!" He had to scream over the storm that raged overhead, the clouds black and boiling with fear and horror - Sammy's understanding, soft smile fading into the encroaching gloom of the sky that pressed down on them from above._

_Hell was coming back home._

_Hell_ was _Home._

_"I knew you saw that - and that...that was_ my _fault, do you hear me? I knew - I_ knew _Sammy!" He surged up against the bite of chains, his fear and rage and guilt causing him to twist and writhe against them, bones popping and fraying upon the steady hold of spikes pinning him to his living coffin. "I_ knew_! And I'm sorry - I'm so fucking_ sorry_!_ God_, Sammy,_ please _- I'm sorry!"_

_The last was a shriek shrill enough to rival the metallic twang of Alistair's welcome - his razor singing his flesh back to the here and now, with the almost sweet tone of spraying blood._

_"Now, now, " his Master rumbled, his voice that of a rather indulgent, though weary owner of a troublesome pet. "What have we said about language here? You will not use words like the 'G' word - I don't like cursing in my House."_

_Dean brayed a bubbling half-laugh at that, shoulders jerking involuntarily as the tip of Alistair's blade found sinew and tendon. _

_"_**Fuck** _-"_

_"Much better," Alistair hummed, before going back to work, his pleasure at his job evident with every scream of dying nerve and jittering, watery gasp that forced its way out of Dean's throat. "Welcome Home, Dean - we missed you..."_

_"Ssssaaaammmm..." he moaned, giving in to the screams that slid from his toes to the tip of his tongue. _

_Lightening flashed behind his eyes and if he squinted against it, if he looked hard enough, he could almost see his brother's face, his soft smile that meant forgiveness._

Sam, I am so sorry...

_But in Hell - in Hell, there is no such thing as Forgiven._

**0-0-0**

**12:07PM**

The sound of a vehicle's door closing startled him awake, its sound heavy, but too rusty even for his girl so his first thought was '_Gotta oil her hinges_.' Even though he had done just that not but two weeks ago, complaining to Sam that he needed to take proper care of her next time she was bequeathed to him. Which Sam blew off without his expected retort of 'what next time?' in favor of needling Dean about using the term 'bequeathed'.

His next thought was '_Still sounds too light for her door' _- then he was fully awake, reality setting in as he blinked in bleary surprise at the smudge on the passenger side window where his cheek had rested, his gaze sweeping the interior of the truck that was too dark colored and care-worn to be his beloved Impala. The bewildering wave of depression that threatened to drag him down was halted by the smell of fresh coffee and Birch's sheepish tone as he started the ancient engine, her protests at being awakened too grinding and thin to be his Chevy. He swiped a hand down his face, pads of his fingers dancing over the cool spot on his cheek where he'd had it jammed against the glass, trying to look as alert as he suddenly felt, his chagrin at having conked out on Birch yet again stilling his tongue before he could fire off a smart ass remark on the comfort of his truck's cab.

It was then he realized that Birch had been speaking when he jolted awake and he shook his head, sitting up straight and reaching blindly for the coffee he knew Twig was holding for him as he yawned his ears open.

"Sorry, Twig - I missed that. What were you saying?"

Birch made sure he had a good grip on his styrofoam cup before he let go, rubbing his fingers absently to soothe the sting left behind by the piping hot beverage. He grinned at Dean, eyes twinkling amusement and apology as he pulled his truck out to merge with traffic, nose heading towards the suburbs where they would find the house.

"Was trying to be quiet so I wouldn't wake you, s'all - seems you were having a pretty nasty dream though, so I guess it was a good thing that her doors are so damned noisy. You okay?"

Dean scrubbed viciously at his eyes and took a tentative sip of the scalding brew, smacking his lips to minimize the burn. He nodded in Twig's direction, appalled that he had fallen asleep in the man's truck _again_ - once could be a fluke, twice was a bad habit. But then, it seemed that sleeping was all he was good for here of late, though he never slept well - and all that time being unconscious really did nothing to refresh him in the long run.

"Sorry, Twig, I have no idea what's wrong with me here lately, that was just...I'm sorry for being so rude. I'll try to stay awake from here on out." He blew out a breath and took another sip of coffee, the second sip as boiling as the first, but he forced himself to drink it anyway, needing to be alert and ready to go - even if his tongue felt as though it was being skinned alive by the crap gas stations dubbed coffee. You'd think he'd've gotten used to it at this point. He deflected the concern that colored Birch's face, waving towards the road as he spoke.

"So we get it all?"

Birch looked like he was going to comment on Dean's previous statement, but let it slide, falling in line with his 'back to business' attitude - the old man's eyes promised to catch him later about whether or not it was considered too rude to fall asleep when you seemed as worn out as Dean knew he looked - but that was a discussion that would (obviously) be held at another time, after the job was done (hopefully long after).

"Yup, everything on the list. Seems a funny mixture of brick-a-brack to me, but the shopkeeper didn't bat an eyelash." Birch chuckled, popping a wink at him as Dean nabbed the bag from the occult shop, pawing through the contents as he ran a mental inventory. He wanted to make sure the asshole didn't short-change Birch, thinking he could take an old man for a ride to put some extra cash in his pockets. "Actually, he seemed pretty impressed with the list - even gave me a discount for how much I bought."

"Oh?" Dean raised an eyebrow, grin breaking out as he tallied that indeed, it was all there and the notion that Twig had made out like a bandit. It wasn't unheard of for magick and occult shops to give out discounts, but they only did that with customers that they saw on a regular basis or customers that bought in bulk in Dean's experience - and Twig fit neither description. "How much of a discount?"

"Wellah, I told him that I was getting all this for my lovely grand-daughter don'cha know - and if she was impressed, she just might be by to see where I got it from, her being new in town and all. So I probably got a good...mmmm, twenty dollars taken off the tally." He smiled contently at Dean's startled laugh, his glee and awe at Twig's brashness lasting a few moments. Ol' Birch's innocent expression didn't help either, the combination of being tired and highly amused sending him off on another round of laughter, tapering off to the occasional chuckle as they put miles under the old truck's wheels.

"Not bad," Dean gasped out after a minute, ribs aching from his fit of giggles. "Not bad at all, Twig. Have to say - they did give us a good price to begin with when I called them. I have a pretty good idea how high this stuff runs, and your 'grand-daughter' just saved me a pretty penny."

"As far as he knows, you _are_ my grand-daughter," Birch chuckled, then his eyebrows jumped in remembrance as he twisted to reach his wallet with a grunt, tongue tucked into his cheek while he divided his attention between the road and the worn leather in his right back pocket. "Almost forgot..."

"Keep it," Dean grumbled in mock temper. "Use it to buy me a friggin' pony."

"Sure thing, De-_anna_, honey," Birch soothed and they bickered good-naturedly for another five miles, before Dean reluctantly pulled his mind back to the task at hand, knowing they needed to make at least one more stop before they got to their destination, to prepare for what was ahead of them. Or him, rather, as Birch would be entering that house over his dead body. And with this poltergeist, it just might be the case.

"I think there is a park near the house - we'll need to make a stop there, Birch," he said, leaning down to open his duffle and double check the items inside. He had salt, he had lighter fluid, somehow he had walked away with Dad's journal (he'd have to find a way to remedy that - Sam would need it more than he would) and of course, his Colt 1911 with five iron and two salt rounds and a spare shotgun with ten salt rounds.

"Sure thing, Dean," Birch answered agreeably. "Is it okay to ask why, though?"

Dean huffed a small laugh and leaned back in his seat after kicking the duffle closed once more, the move more instinctive than based on the need to hide the items within.

"Yeah, it's okay - I kind of prefer you did, actually, to tell you the truth. I hate the whole TMI idea and 'don't ask, don't tell'. My Dad operated that way and while it works ordinarily, it really doesn't in this case. But to keep it simple, I'll explain as much as I know about what we're dealing with and my ideas on how I'm going to handle it. For right now - I need us to be in a location where I can put these cleansing bags together without drawing too much attention. A park isn't ideal for that, generally, but at this time of day with our respective ages, we may be mistaken for people who are taking a lunch break from work - so we just might be able to put these things together without anyone being too nosy. Then again, we're gonna need a place to park the truck while I approach the house on foot. That way if anything goes wrong, the neighborhood watch doesn't have your truck's license plate and general description to make your life harder with." He shrugged, leaning in his seat with the machine as Birch made a right turn, his eyes scanning everything beyond the windshield, though he really didn't see what was outside, his mind too busy churning over the job and how he was going to approach it.

"It helps when you've done this a couple of times or more. Though I will say, alot of how I tackle this kind of job depends on the urgency of the job. With this one, the house is empty, the For Sale sign is still up and the realtor probably only visits the place when they have to, which is to say, maybe on a Sunday and only when they've got prospective buyers - which according to Micah, there are none. So while the house needs to be cleansed and the spirit laid to rest, it's not something that needs to be done right _now_ to save more lives - so parking in front of the place in front of god and everybody can be avoided - though that's not always the case. While this set up has it's advantages, there are major disadvantages, too. Because there are no prospective buyers - and I guarantee you the neighbors know it - it means that any strangers lurking around will be seen as suspicious. The best time to go in is during the day, because hardly anyone will be home - at least with this neighborhood as it seems to be mostly made up of newer families and middle class residents - so the majority of them will be at work or shopping. But if there does happen to be anyone around, alarms will be raised much faster because it is the middle of the afternoon, a perfect time for burglary and general B&Es." He paused in his run-down of tactics and reasoning, brain still puzzling over that one detail that would connect the two deaths.

"So basically, walking up is the best idea - but I have to find a quick way in, probably the old fashioned way, that B&E people worry so much about, put the cleansing bags in the four corners of the house before I go to find the object that has triggered Tomkin's outbursts and flambe the damned thing - and hope they disconnected the smoke alarms. Most of the time if a house sits empty for long periods we don't have to worry about alarms and smoke detectors - but occasionally you get that vigilant realty company which can make the job just that much harder. I'm hoping that's not the case here." He paused as they arrived at a little park, the only concession that really called it such was a single row of forlorn looking swing sets, chains rusty, seats worn through.

"There any other disadvantages?" Birch asked lightly.

Dean glanced at him, then waited for the truck to lurch to a halt before gathering his supplies, pulling everything out of the bag and setting it on the seat beside him, flattening the bag itself out to use as a make-shift work surface.

"Yeah, one..." he murmured, fingering the felt cloth that would hold the herbs for each bundle. "I have every bit of intel I could want on this gig, except for one. I have the neighborhood, the type of area it is, whether or not there are owners of this particular house, how many accidents there have been, how many deaths and how long ago. I know that Tomkins himself died four years ago and two other people died about eight months apart, different residents of the house - no outsider deaths, though the accidents happened only to visitors, not to the owners and their families. I know that the last death was over eighteen months ago, which would make one wonder why I am here to take care of an old spook that hasn't kicked up the dickens for almost two years, but that doesn't really matter in the long run. Someone will buy the house eventually, or some kids are gonna break in and play, or in general mess around. The older a poltergeist gets, the more power it can draw on, so the next accident might just be fatal - it's better safe than sorry." He cut off his rambling monologue, mildly embarassed when he realized that he was thinking out loud again, working the case through. It bugged him that this old bastard hadn't been taken care of before the death-toll got so high - or why so much time had passed since the last death and Bobby getting wind of the case. He knew those questions were going to be eating at him awhile, but they really had nothing to do with the case itself. There was only one more detail he didn't have - just one more thing he needed to know before he settled the old guy's hash once and for all.

"I have everything I need, mostly - really more than I need or even get in most cases. Interest and gossip about a four year old death isn't the norm - but Tomkins created quite a sensation before he bit the dust, so I got way more info surrounding him and the house than I usually get. The only info I _don't_ have is where the two victims died, when and how. The records for this area - the most recent anyway, dating over the last ten years - were lost in a fire and it has been taking forever for their computer systems to get organized, which means they probably have the information, but not the means to get it. Normally, I would wait them out a few days, but...I really don't have that luxury for this Hunt." He coughed, waving that last bit off as he sectioned out the herbs by memory, the sudden recollection of Missouri and her house so clear for a moment he could almost smell incense over-laid with coffee and fresh bread. He went on automatic, two pinches of Valerian, one pinch of mugwort as he continued to think out loud, Birch sitting still and quiet, absorbing the information while watching Dean's fingers deftly measure, mix and wrap each sachet.

"I'm thinking that since the old man died in his attic, doing Lord knows what, that might be where the victims met their ends. I really wish that the clerks could remember where the victims were found, but sometimes things like that happen - which is why it is kicked to us, the connections usually so subtle you have to be looking for it. They only intel I have on the victims is that they died at different times, so that leaves us with a small problem in one respect. If he can manifest at any time, he could do it when I'm trying to cleanse the house. But if my gut is right, he's going to wait until I get to the attic. I think that's the connecting point - what each victim had in common. Now I just need to know what they stumbled across that got the old jackass so upset. Usually if a ghost's remains have been cremated, there is an object tying them here - and if he has all the powers and mojo of the 'giest he's behaving like, it's a very powerful item indeed, more than just a lock of hair, or a bracelet or something like that. Something that has more meaning - to him if to no one else. I've got to find that object before he gets to me and burn it - the only hope I have is that he may not be able to manifest until I touch that object. I'm sure many, many people have traipsed in and out of that area without being disturbed." He tied off the third bag, lip pursed in thought.

"The accident victims weren't listed where my friends at city hall could get to them - and the morgue wouldn't carry such information. Police keep records of such things - but once again, that takes way too much time to sift through. I'll bet you dollars to donuts though, that each accident was a construction worker of some type. Sayyy, an electrician, plumber - roofer? Someone who has to have access or the ability to get into hidden caches or hidey holes that this fugly might have stashed something in. I'll probably never know for sure on that score, but since I'm an outsider like the accident victims, I'll have to be just as careful. He may not kill me, but breaking a leg and falling downstairs isn't my idea of a good time, either." He nimbly tied off the last bag, putting all four into his shirt pocket before absently resealing all the ingredients, putting what was left of the magic shop items back in the paper sack, stashing it carefully in his duffle.

"Aren't you forgettin' somethin', Dean?" Birch said when it seemed clear the younger man had finished speaking. Dean frowned, doing a mental inventory before shaking his head, lasering a heavy look at his friend.

"No...no, I don't think so." He hesitated, knowing in some half-assed way what Twig was referring to, but not willing to back down if the farmer tried to budge him. Birch looked at him with those rheumy, knowing eyes and harrumphed a cough, jaw setting in a hard line before tapping once, twice against the steering wheel, cautiously directing his next statement to the run-down, shitty playground outside the Chevy's windshield.

"What will I being doing, Forrester?"

"Hanging out here and being my getaway vehicle, _Collins,_" Dean retorted, feeling guilty, but still firm on his stance.

"Afraid I might get in the way?"

"No, afraid that you might get _hurt_," Dean said bluntly. "Look, hearing about all this is one thing, but actually seeing it -"

"So," Birch interrupted. "Either you are pulling my leg about this ghost crap - which would mean you've wasting my time all afternoon. Or you're concerned about an old man screwing up your job - and thus depriving you of a ride out of here -"

"_Hey_!" Dean snapped, stung.

"_Or_ you are sure that I'll freak out, leavin' you with a civvie raising nine kinds of alarms and then some. So any way it goes, I have to babysit the friggin' truck while you risk your ass on what sounds like a two-man job all by your lonesome!" Twig barked out, waffling between righteous indignation, anger and pride. There was concern in there, too, Dean could feel it - but he'd hoped Birch would have more trust in him and his judgement than this. A little more belief in their friendship (new as it was) - otherwise he should have just exited the goddamned truck forty-five minutes ago.

"Are you finished?" he queried pleasantly, steel coloring his tone. Birch turned his head away, looking mildly sorry and flustered, but with that stubborn, mulish cast that Dean had come to know so well from years of dealing with Sam.

"Alright," Dean continued when it seemed Birch had nothing further to say. "The whole reason I'm going in alone, Birch - well, one of the main ones - is yes, I want to keep you out of harm's way. I've seen some of the best hunters lock up around a poltergeist. They are rarer than actual ghosts and five times more nasty. I just don't want to risk it taking a poke at you because I'm pissing it off. Also, I do need someone to keep an eye out for me - this job gives me a feeling..."

He trailed off, eyes far away for a split moment before refocusing on Birch, his gaze steady, haunted - the green of those eyes vividly deep and old for such a young face.

"Look," he added softly. "I know you've seen things - some crazy, mind-blowing shit during The War, but _nothing_ I say can prepare you for what's in that house. I'm going to have my hands full with that 'geist and if you're there, I'll be wanting to safeguard you - and we could both get hurt from that. I'm sorry...I'm sorry you don't trust me. I'm sorry that you feel I'm leaving you out of this from some weird type of spite or pity - but...even if this job requires another hunter - you can't _be_ that hunter. I don't want you to be - you are too good, too honest to be one of us. I know that makes no sense, but I don't want you to come away from all this with that sadness, that fear that I've seen on too many faces in my lifetime. I just can't do that to you, Birch. I won't."

He covered the quiet by digging the shotgun and salt rounds out of his duffle. He deposited the shells in his pockets, dropping the gun at his feet with a sniff as he zipped the canvas bag closed, retrieving the gun and tilting it across his lap, aware of Birch's eyes following his every move.

"Seems you have an over-inflated sense of responsibility there, Dean," Birch said kindly, his voice quiet so he wouldn't startle the young man with a shotgun across his legs. To Dean's credit, he didn't flinch, but seemed to consider the older man's words with the weight they were due before huffing a humorless laugh, catching his upper lip in his teeth as he quirked his head in Birch's direction, studying him with hooded eyes.

"Yeah? Comes with years of practice Twig," was the flat retort, muscle jumping reflexively in his jaw as he tilted his head away again, aware that his gaze may be making his friend uncomfortable. "Comes with too many near-misses and even more losses than that."

He sighed wearily, leaning on one knee to swipe a heavy hand over his hair then back again to rub at the tense lines of his neck, the headache still a low insistent throb at his temples. Feeling as well as hearing Birch's low, steady intake of air, while he absorbed that little tidbit of information - leaving him free to interpret it any way he saw fit.

"Well, Dean - how exactly do you expect to stop me from following you?" he asked after a moment's reflection, his tone smooth - relaxed even. Dean made a noise of surprise and weary resignation, digging his thumb and forefinger into his eyes before blinking a heavy look at Birch's determined face.

"Don't do this -"

"You're gonna need to get in and out of there fast, son - and if I help with putting them little bags in place it might get it done faster, before it gets time to get riled up."

"Dammit! Birch - " The logic was sound, that was the problem. He shook his head, not wanting to even consider it, but his mind worried at it trying to find a way to make it work, even as a small voice inside whispered that this was a bad idea, beyond a bad idea. There were too many unknowns, to many factors that hadn't been calculated in. That Birch didn't know what he was doing, didn't know what he was walking into, he was an older guy, a little slower on his feet and he didn't even have the basics (silver, salt, Latin, holy water, fire, iron) to protect himself with.

'_Excuses - all excuses. Trick is - how do I stop him from following?_' he wondered bitterly.

"Look, I understand that this is dangerous, just from how you're actin' with me wanting to help out. I get that - but young man, it has been a damned long while since I've had a puppy tell me what to do or better yet, what to _not_ do -"

"You said you'd follow my orders, take my lead -" Dean growled.

"That I did, but as I can see you aren't leadin' me anywhere so much as leaving me behind..." Birch returned with a shift of his shoulders, eyes as placid as if he was commenting on the weather or the coffee - not arguing to have his head handed to him by a supernatural nasty.

'_Fuck_...'

It sucked when logic came at you from all sides. Though Dean's heart told him that he couldn't - _shouldn't _- let Birch be dragged into this (or walk in cheerfully blind as the case may be) his gut and head rivaled that feeling of wrongness. Bobby had kicked the case to (what he'd thought at the time) was a two-man team, otherwise Singer would have taken care of it himself, without a word to the Winchesters, unless he needed bailing out of some sort. Rare, but it did happen. Birch's notion of getting all the bags in place faster before Old Man Tomkins could kick up the shit was sound, reasonable and totally what he would do if he had Dad or Sam here. But Dad was dead and Sam...Sam had found a way to kick ass without the good old Winchester know-how - Dean still didn't know how he felt about that, but head, gut and heart agreed that it wasn't his call to make and that Sam seemed to be doing just fine without his older brother there being a fuck-up or cramping his style (however you chose to think of it).

Which left Dean with just himself - or himself and an old man who didn't know shit from shinola when it came to gakking ghosts. On the one hand, showing Birch hunting would change his life forever - would disillusion him and show him that the world was a much scarier place than he had thought all of his seventy-eighty goddamned years on this plane of existence. On the other, it would make Birch feel useful and get him in and out just that much faster. The reasons for him to not come were getting smaller and smaller when stacked up against the crazy of _not_ having him in it. It made Dean feel petty, unreasonable, pigheaded, arrogant - and boxed in.

He hated being boxed in.

He hated this helpless, empty feeling he carried inside him without Sam to back his play. He hated being Dean Winchester and _breathing_ right the fuck now - but it seemed that what it all boiled down to was choice. And his choice was, he had none. There were no options here. It was the smart way - get it done and taken care of (possibly getting an old man either traumatized for life or hospitalized, fun choices there) or risk getting his ass kicked, and either finding Sammy hot on his heels a few hours from now while he cooled his jets in the hospital himself (only to feel more like a useless shit when his brother got there) or limping away from it all, job left undone. Which would make him feel like so much shit afterward - a useless, thoughtless, waste of fucking space. That is if he even _survived_ Tomkins - two people hadn't so far. Never mind they had no idea what they were up against, it was the very fact that they _did_ go head to head with a 'geist and came out zero on the tally.

But then, he could also walk away from it, job done, asses (his own in particular) saved by his own awesome, bad-ass self - while breaking the heart of an old man who would probably feel as useless, feckless and horrible as Dean felt right now.

"Guess I don't have a choice then," he sighed, deflating even as Birch grinned in triumph and joy.

He shook his head and grabbed a canister of salt and his bottle of holy water, handing them over to Birch as he got ready to explain the rules before they made their run. It was not exactly what he wanted to do, but he could make it work - God knows they'd had to deal with their fair share of civvies over the years armed with a lot less knowledge and a hell of a lot more scared.

Still didn't change how very fucking disappointed in himself he was at that moment, even with the mild tingling warmth he got as Twig looked at him like a kid who'd just discovered Christmas. It both buoyed and saddened him, that look - it told him in more ways than one that he was failing, that he was falling while standing up - but he managed to muster up a half-hearted grin for his friend as he went over the supernatural basics.

Still no two ways about it, though - this fucking shit sucked out loud.

**0-0-0**

"It is all about preparation - and how much of yourself you are willing to put into your work."

_Alistair was being philosophical today - and Dean didn't know whether to be afraid, or bored. He decided to stick with bored, but was mindful enough to pay attention. Alistair's Lessons could come in handy sometimes. But they could also turn and bite you if you weren't careful enough to listen to them the first time._

_"I'm always prepared," Dean drawled, putting just enough boredom in his tone to piss the Inquisitor off, but not enough to make him want to taste blood. He deliberately turned his back to his Master and started gathering his things, the stretch and pull of his muscles under his own will and power, not that of a blade or spell, still something that surprised and gratified him. He had made the right choice - he could_ feel _it_.

_Not that there was much of a choice to it at the time._

_Alistair nodded his acknowledgement to the truth of Dean's statement, even as he gritted his teeth in frustration at him, not so much for the flippant remark as Dean's turned back, a response in itself. Dean had figure out a long time ago how to straddle that fine line with him and while it irritated Alistair, it also gave him a sense of pride. No one else could take the soul of a Winchester and shape it like he had Dean's, so he tolerated the smart-mouthed responses - at least it was refreshing. No one else in Hell dared to take such tones and airs with the High Inquisitor - but no one chose to question the fact that he allowed it from Dean, either._

_He watched as his apprentice went about setting his table, each movement careful and precise, instruments laid out according to size and damage ratio. He flicked Alistair a dark look and leaned in to check the restraints on the Rack, walking around it to make sure every inch of it was pristine and sturdy. Hell had a bad habit of destroying more than souls and even Alistair had come across problems with Rack breakage - not that it had mattered to anyone but him (and well, Dean, if his actions were anything to go by) . _

_Still, sloppy conditions and disgraceful tools could affect a man's work and his diligence to said work - just wouldn't do._

_"That's all you are going to say?" Dean sounded surprised and a little suspicious, which had Alistair chuckling deep inside. That was Dean, alright - get right to it...always impatient that one._

_Alistair watched him make one more walk around (occasionally darting a quick glance at his Master), admiring the predatory style and grace of Dean's movements as he let the Boy stew in his own head. Making Winchester nervous nowadays was a rarity - but it was fun to see if he could make it happen. _

_Not today, though - today, he had other plans in mind._

_"No," he replied, inspecting his fingers with concentration (as if they would ever dare to have dirt on them). "But I can wait until you are finished."_

_"I'm finished now," Dean retorted mildly. "What do you need?"_

_There was a small splash of blood, high on Dean's cheekbone, the tackiness of it long faded, leaving it a rust-colored splotch streaked dryly across his skin. It had stretched and flaked as Dean talked, the Boy either not noticing the pull of it on his flesh or not caring, but it bothered Alistair that the rest of Dean's face was so pristine - this dot of gore the only thing that marred it. _

_Decision made, he wetted a thumb and swiped it across the splotch, rubbing at it until it disappeared, his actions not unlike a harried parent who feels the need to make sure their child is presentable. To Dean's credit he didn't flinch, holding perfectly still until Alistair was satisfied the offending stain was gone, knowing if he resisted the Demon would take exception - and usually displayed his displeasure by dispensing Pain. He held his breath until Alistair withdrew his hand, releasing it on a shudder that had his Master quirking an odd knowing smile, abruptly turning to inspect his work area, his next words called over his shoulder._

_"I just need a moment of your time, Dean - can you do that?" Silence greeted him as he double-checked the restraints near the bottom of the Rack, noting how Dean had made up for possible wear and tear by double-looping the bindings so they would hold longer._

_Impressive - and ingenious. But then, he expected no less, really._

_He half-turned, catching Dean's eye with a frown, rolling his hand to indicate Dean could speak. The Boy hesitated, lip curled in a mistrustful snarl, expecting Alistair's presence to lead to a trick of some sort - and while The Inquisitor appreciated that he could keep Dean on his toes like that, he had a full day ahead of him and only so much time that he could spare. He could always make up the time, but he had experiments that just wouldn't keep._

_"Sure, Alistair," Dean finally replied, tone still wary. "Is there something you want to talk about? Did I do something wrong?"_

_Worried now - which was also refreshing. Even when Dean was the one being tortured, his deep-seated need to please, his surety in his own failure made him a fascinating subject to study. How John had over-looked such a treasure as his eldest, Alistair had no idea - but it was better to have such a creature on your side than against you. Even if Dean's willingness to fall in line was reluctant, Alistair never took it for granted - it was a gift freely given. _

_And he had not been disappointed yet. _

_Dean's imagination and creativity knew no bounds, his rage-driven torments so unique and insightful - Alistair was anything but bored by it. Each slice, each burn that he inflicted still cut Dean to the quick, his own soul tormented with each each new victim placed upon his Rack (all part of the point) - but fear bred purpose and anger bred ingenuity, both qualities his favorite apprentice had in abundance. Alistair considered himself very lucky indeed._

_"No, Dean - nothing wrong. I just wanted to ask some questions, if you would. I think you've got a few minutes more before your next...appointment - and while I have my ever involving experiments, I think I can take a timeout on them, just to speak to you - maybe see how you're doing here," Alistair replied smoothly, taking note of the anxious fidget Dean had acquired during the short silence._

_Dean hesitated again, his surprise at the conversational tone and relaxed attitude of the Demon Overlord evident only in the tilt of his head and the tension across his shoulders. His stance and posture bled a relaxed calm that Alistair knew he didn't feel. He knew everything about Dean - had held his very essence in his hands and declared it his, he had torn open his mind and rebuilt it so many times, even he had lost count (though Dean probably had not) so the Boy's deceptive attitude fooled him not one bit. Alistair had thrown him, maybe even scared him - and while that would normally be something he looked upon with righteous glee, that was not the purpose of this visit._

_Alistair gave Dean a moment to compose himself by studying the room and the surrounding equipment, pleased at how clean and orderly everything was, every piece of metal polished to a high shine, each blade, each implement painstakingly gone over until it was sturdy and at the best quality for it to function._

_"I do like how you keep the place," he mused, turning in a slow circle to take in the overall atmosphere. Dean had definitely made this room his, that was for sure. His soul still stank of righteousness and fire, but the bleak starkness of his surroundings more than made up for it. _

_"Thank you," Dean replied, unable to keep the pride and pleasure at Alistair's offhand praise out of his tone. _

_Simple and easy to please, his Boy._

_"Just stating a fact, Dean - there is more than one reason you are my favorite pupil," stated in a bored, casual way, but his lips curled in a smile as Dean shuddered, torn between happiness and disgust. If anyone had told him that you could actually make a soul happy in this Realm, Alistair would have told you that you were insane, before showing you physically where the flaw inside your skull must exist. But he had seen flashes of it in Winchester over the last several years, making him feel a wonder he had not been capable of for several thousand. He had a feeling that with Dean at his side, boredom would never be an issue again - and he looked forward to the next turn of the century with a glee that no other soul had ever inspired in him._

Fascinating.

_"So, Dean...you remember when you first came here, right?"_

_Dean made a small noise of surprise and shuddered again, swallowing thickly as he jerked his head in a short nod, eyes uneasy now at the direction Alistair's conversation was going._

_"Yeah- yes...yes, I remember."_

_"What do you remember exactly?" Alistair asked, fingers wandering over the tray of tools in an absent curiosity, occasionally picking one up to examine it closely before setting it back down again. _

_Dean's gaze clocked his every move, licking his lips nervously before he replied._

_"I...I remember the Hounds coming for me."_

_"Do you remember why?"_

_Dean's eyes narrowed, wondering if the question itself was a trick, or a true question, but compelled to answer nonetheless._

_"Yes - I sold my soul to bring my brother back." Said with that queer twist of pride, chin tilting in defiance as if he expected to be called foolish or wrong. Actually Alistair thought it was one of the most noble reasons to sell your soul. He wasn't fond of noble, but it suited Dean, so he let that slide, choosing instead to focus on the selfish aspects of that act, an admirable trait in its own right (though one Dean did not have enough of in his personality, more's the pity)._

_"Ahhh, yes - so you did...and how do you feel about that now?"_

_Dean lowered his head in challenge, muscle in his jaw twitching as his mouth thinned, the wound still too fresh and sharp to heal. But Hell was not known for its healing - just known for making such hurts fester, though this wound had not yet begun to rot._

_"It was the right thing to do," Dean said grimly. "I'd do it again, in a heartbeat."_

_"Really - even with the full tour you took down here?" Alistair, murmured, bemused. "I'd like to think that's a tribute to my hospitality. Thank you..."_

_Dean barked a humorless laugh, rolling his shoulders to relieve the tension._

_"Yeah, you're a fantastic host, Alistair, I have no idea what I'd have done without you guiding my way." The double-meaning clear in his words, the bite of irony soaking through the thin skin of his sentence. He went to open his mouth to say more, but the air shimmered with an electric buzz, the very dimensions of the room shifting as Hell prepared to deposit the next Sinner into Dean's righteous clutches. _

_It was Alistair's turn to shiver as he mused for a moment on the perfect wielding of a razor, all the effects and uses of an ordinary clamp and he smiled as he saw a mirror of his motion across Dean's shoulders. He longed to stay and watch Dean work - a type of poetry in motion in and of itself, but he had taken too much time already. Things to see, things to do. There was one last question he had to ask - and he sincerely hoped that it wouldn't throw Dean off of his art and the beautiful destruction he could wreak. Though a small part of him that itched to have him under his blade once more (yes, the punishment even for such a simple infraction as distraction/dereliction of duties) hoped that it would do just that, so he could have the excuse to revel in the music of Dean's screams._

_Too bad his Boy was a little more steady and reliable than that - though this...would eat at him for awhile. Which was the point and purpose of this visit really, keep him reeling - keep him wondering._

_"You did this for Sam, huh?" Alistair intoned, his voice neutral and non-threatening as he leaned into Dean's space, his lips hovering mere centimeters from the delicate shell of his Boy's ear._

_A ripple of movement shifted Dean's skin across his bones, his sharp intake of breath at the voicing of his brother's name, barely heard over the crackle of ozone as the fabric of time and space ripped itself apart above their heads, the sound reminiscent of Torment itself. _

_"Yes," Dean whispered, mashing his lower lip between his teeth to keep in a whimper or a scream as Alistair's hand clamped down on his bicep, squeezing briefly before releasing him, his own whisper thunderous in Dean's ears, even above the cacophony overhead._

_"How very admirable, Boy - tell me...how long ago was that?"_

_"Th-thirty-two years, 5 months, three days, two hours and forty-three minutes ago," Dean gasped out rapidly, his grasp of the exact time stunning Alistair even as it brought a rare smile to his face. Dean's shivering became more violent, though noticeable only to one such as The Inquisitor, Dean's famous iron control masking his disgust and fear at the smile he sensed behind him, able to almost feel the stretch of Alistair's lips across the horror that was his face._

_"Good...very good, Dean." Silky, purring - terrifying in its mildness. "As much as I have enjoyed my time with you - and I'm sure the feeling is mutual - there is only one question left. Only one - but I think it may be the most important question of all, though I think I'll let you decide that. I'll even give you time to ponder it, if you'd like."_

_"Okay," Dean grated, trembling delicately on the weighted string of his own fear. He had passed every test, imagined or no, that Alistair had thrown at him and had come out the other side hardly the worse for wear (stronger in many ways, much to Alistair's chagrin), but the very idea of this simple question seemed to leave him twitchy and afraid. Dean was odd that way - slice him, gut him, burn his insides away and he would remain stoic, silent and unafraid. But tease at that darkness within his own mind, use words to cut and thoughts to destroy and he was helpless before the pain of them._

_"Think of it Dean," Alistair breathed, hardly minding as a new, squirming soul was dropped to the Rack, the magic inside the machine quickly binding and gagging the thing until Dean stepped in to take over, almost as if the instrument was aware of the delicacy of this conversation. Dean breathed through the vile twist of his words, hanging onto every syllable, his newest victim not even existing in this moment as he awaited his Master's next whispered torment. Alistair had his full attention - just the way he liked it._

_"Think of it...you sold your soul for your brother and you were brought here a mere thirty-two years, five months, three days, two hours and forty-four -_ forty_-_five _- minutes ago, right?" He felt more than saw Dean's nod, his apprentice stilling as he saw the direction they were tilting toward, his next breath a mixture of sob and sigh. "You say you would do it again and I believe you would - but would_ he_?_ You - _Dean Winchester - sold your soul to the proverbial Devil to save your brother's life - so why isn't he here to do the same? I guess that's the real question, the most important one, really - you are here - but where...is_ Sam_? After all this time, all these long years...where is your brother?"_

_There was nothing more to say after that. He was out of time, anyway - there were things to do, experiments to oversee - other seeds of hatred to plant. So as much as he would like to stay, see Dean work, see Dean work through the pain of that tiny, insignificant question - he had to go, attend to his other projects in the making._

_So nodding once to himself, Alistair stepped out of Dean's space, only pausing long enough to make sure Dean absorbed the impact his brother's absence made - _

_And left him to the delicate rage of his work._


	8. Chapter 8

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Four**

**Part Two**

**'I Can (**_**and Shall Obey**_**)'**

_**And I thought I was mistaken, and I thought I heard you speak - Tell me how do I feel, tell me now, how should I feel? -**_** Orgy**

**12:36 PM**

In the end, Dean still really had no idea how they made it out of the house.

He knew the job was done - he had set fire to the damned diary himself. But as for actually leaving and in one piece - yeah, he drew a total blank there.

And then Birch was in his face, pissed and hollering and he had no flippin' clue what to make of _that_.

"What the fuck is the matter with you? You got some kind of fucking _death-wish_, boy?" And Dean could only sob out a laugh because he hadn't the fucking _foggiest_ what Birch was talking about - and he was still reeling from (well, amongst other things) his friend even _thinking_ the work '_fuck_'.

Then Twig was hauling him by his jacket, back to the truck, still muttering about fire and crazy ghosts, white about the mouth while he chewed Dean out and all Dean could do was stumble-step after him, thinking distantly about how bad his shoulder hurt and how his knee was kinda protesting his weight.

"What happened?" he slurred thickly, flinching at the drunken lisp of his words, even while his brain flitted through the idea that well, it matched his walking, at least. "Did we grab the weapons? Did the diary burn all the way? Fuck, Birch, lemme _go_!"

He jerked away so abruptly, Birch had no choice but to let him loose, and time yawed sideways again, leaving him scrambling at the edges of it. The next thing he knew, they were in Birch's truck, but the old man wasn't talking, was just sitting there, shaking - and Dean thought grimly that _this_ was the reason you don't drag civvies into supernatural battles, all logic standing behind it or no. Though from what Birch next said, that wasn't the reason why he was so upset, the 'geist had hardly affected him at all. Something happened while they were there, in the house. Something that made time go wobbly and slide underneath his perception. Something not-good that had Birch all pinched and scared and waffling between anger and concern.

"Ease up old man," he joked half-heartedly, that headache he'd had earlier back with a vengeance, thumping away behind his eyeballs and sending streaks of lightning down his temples. He was relieved to find the thick slur out of his voice though, which had kinda been freaking _him_ the fuck on out.. "You get too excited there you'll have heart-failure. I mean, I'm up on my CPR, but -"

"This ain't funny!" Birch thundered, his voice high and creaky, breaking at the end in an almost raspy screech. Sounding like a highly agitated old man as a matter of fact - something Dean found somewhat startling, even though Birch _was_ a highly agitated old man. "You scared the shit out of me, Forrester -"

"Winchester," Dean mumbled.

"What?"

"Winchester - m'name's Dean Winchester. If you are going to save my life, might as well know my real name." He gave a half huff of laughter, sounding uncertain as he glanced at Birch from the corner of his eye, lip curled in a self-depreciating smirk. Birch just stared at him for a moment, eyes wide, flush high on his cheeks as though he was going to start yelling again - or really have that damned heart-attack. Then he did the damnedest thing

Birch started laughing - _hard_.

He slapped his knee and guffawed like Dean had told the world's best joke, gasping for each breath before losing it again in a fresh peal of laughter. Dean couldn't help it. A few seconds in, his lips began to twitch, though he couldn't, for the life of him, see what was so damned funny. It didn't take long though, for Birch's raspy giggles to get under his skin and he started laughing with him. They laughed until tears ran out of their eyes, until they had to grip the dash to keep from sliding out of their seats. Dean's ribs and face ached, his eyes stung as wave after wave of laughter (sounding slightly hysterical from the both of them) tumbled from deep down in his chest, his belly cramping from the strain of it. He was aware that to anyone passing by, they would look like two lunatics heehawing away in a beat up truck, both looking the worse for wear over it - but damn it was refreshing. It had been a long damned time since he had laughed so hard and so freely - even if he had no idea what the hell he was laughing about.

The laughter finally tapered off to giggles and mild snorts as they tried to regain their equilibrium, intentionally not looking at one another for fear of another fit. It took another few minutes for them to catch their respective breaths, swiping at eyes that still streamed with helpless tears, arms pressed across their ribs as if to hold what was left of their insides in.

"Winchester, huh?" Birch finally choked, voice breathy and thin. "Thought Forrester didn't fit - Winchester sounds much better. Like the -"

" - rifle," Dean supplied, pressing his lips firmly around the snort that tried to escape. " Yeah, like the rifle."

Then suddenly, things were serious again - the pervasive warmth the laughter had brought ebbing away slowly, the bite of autumn creeping back into the truck.

"Well, Winchester - what happened back there?" Birch finally asked, eyebrows raised in question as he contemplated the young man's profile, Dean's face honest, open and slightly scared as he returned the glance, shifting away again in discomfort to stare at the car parked next to them.

"I don't...I don't know, Birch. I can't begin to tell you - I...I honestly have no idea," Dean confessed, gaze shifting to his hands, open and palms up across his thighs, fingers trembling with the weight of all he couldn't understand. He flexed his hands, flipping them to grip his thighs, the ache in his right knee singing as he did so, forcing him to grip harder, to breathe through the pain telegraphing up to his hip. "I can't really remember what happened after I went upstairs. I remember picking the lock on the backdoor -"

" - that was smooth there, young man - almost couldn't believe it when that damn door popped open -"

"I remember placing the first bag in a vent on the east. Then after calling out to you to place one of yours in the south, I dropped the second bag in the west. I remember I had to kick a hole in the drywall to drop it in - "

"Boy, didn't that make a racket, too," Birch sighed. "Thought we'd bring in the whole neighborhood kickin' in the walls like that..."

"And then you dropped that last one in the north -"

"And whew! Didn't know what to expect, but that light-show was spectacular!" Birch marveled, making Dean pause in his recollection to grin at him, his eyes dancing with glee.

"Wasn't it? I've always loved shit like that. S'one of the perks of the job - the special effects," Dean smiled, stopping for a moment to enjoy Birch's return grin. He shook his head after a second though and set his mind back to working out his missing time, knowing that somehow, what had happened was _important_ - even if he couldn't remember it. Maybe that was what _was_ so important about it, the very fact he couldn't recall what happened after they reached that attic. The best way he knew to find that missing information was to track what he knew against what Birch knew and for that, he needed to quit screwing around and focus.

"So after the initial awesomeness of that, I found the drop-ceiling to the attic -"

"They'd had the string tucked in a light fixture," Birch supplied.

"Yeah...yeah, I remember that," Dean replied softly, rolling the events in his head and lining them up as best as he could. It bothered him (fucking scared the shit out of him, really) that he couldn't remember anything beyond climbing those rickety wooden slats laughingly called steps and finding that fucking diary. He could recall with instant clarity what he had for breakfast the day he made his first kill, could recall down to the last detail the day Sam graduated from high school. He could remember things most people considered junk and went out of their way to forget - the good, the bad and the ugly - he carried it all up in his head, easily retrievable after a few seconds of thought. But this was skittering just out of his mind's reach, slip-sliding through his conscious memory like liquid smoke.

"I almost got a splinter grabbing that flimsy piece of plywood they called a railing -"

"Yeah, you had to help me up -"

"After I told you to stay down there." Dean shook his head, eyes smiling at Birch even though his mouth was a grim line. "Just had to join the party."

"Well, I always did like a good encore." Birch smiled back.

"Yeah - and I didn't want you falling on your ass - s'just easier to help you up than to argue with you."

Birch smirked and looked pleased for a split second, his face dropping a good twenty years in that moment - and Dean could almost guess at what he must have looked like as a young man. Too soon it was gone though and Twig lapsed back into a waiting stillness, allowing Dean to gather his thoughts and move from point A to point B.

"Yeah, anyway," Dean continued, wrenching his eyes away from Birch. "I helped you up and -"

"Christ, that attic was a friggin' mess - "

"And we found that damned diary almost right away. Was friggin' spooky - almost like Tomkins left it out for us."

"You had me fetch that metal pail over near the trapdoor thingummy - "

"We dropped the book in, took a second to get my lighter fluid though -"

"You had me salt it, which made sense after what you told me about ghosts and purity and crap like that -"

"I set the match to it and then -" Dean froze, eyes faraway as he caught and confronted what slid before his mind's eye, his face slack with a dim, barely-remembered terror. "And then -"

_Fire, fire_ everywhere _- a high-pitched manic giggle (so familiar) coming at him, surrounding the small space, all around him and yet nowhere. There was nowhere to go, there was no escape - they would find him and he would have to go home and face his Master, his Master who was looking at him through the endless fire, laughing as he came to haul him back where he had come from, take him back to his honorary place on the Rack because it wasn't over, it was never over -_

"You froze..." Birch whispered, regret, pity and horror in his voice. "You just...locked up."

_Flames reached high, high towards the narrow ceiling, a face in the flames ancient and familiar, twisted with malice and hatred, just for him, reaching for him to drag him back and it would start all over again -_

"Fuck..." Dean choked, lost for a moment in the sea of images that swamped him, a confused jumble of reality and nightmare. He had thought...he had thought he'd seen Alistair - just for a split second, a mere moment in time - and he had almost killed Twig and himself in his utter panic. "Oh _fuck_ screwed up -"

"No - no, Dean you saved us both from that crazy poltergeist," Birch said sadly, laying a grounding hand on Dean's shoulder. "I shoulda stayed put, like you told me, but -"

_Dean wrenched his gaze away from fire, feeling something,_ someone _move behind him. He turned to see Birch striding toward him, mouth moving in a soundless clutter of speech - and Birch had no idea,_ no idea _what Alistair was capable of. There was no innocent, there was no guilty - there was only screaming and blood and fire and pain - and he couldn't lead Birch into that. He'd die a thousand deaths all over again before that happened - Alistair couldn't have the old man - he'd go Home quietly, he'd follow his Master back to the Rack if that's what it took, as long as he didn't take Birch, who was a decent, hard-working, honest soul - he didn't deserve that kind of horror, that torment -_

_He danced out of Birch's reach, almost knocking over the metal pail with the burning diary as he did so, narrowly avoiding burning down the house with the both of them in it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw (_Tomkins_) Alistair diverting his attention to Twig, that horrible, screeching laughter taking on a howling tone as the apparition aimed straight for the old man, evil intent saturating the very air as the (_'geist_) demon snatched at him, teeth bared in fury._

_Dean did the only thing he could think to do, the instinct to protect so deeply ingrained, he didn't even register he was moving until he had grabbed Twig by the front of his jacket and swung him out of the way, shoving him deeper into the shadowy confines of the attic, barely noting the old farmer's squawk of surprise as he landed on his ass amongst the piles of ancient junk, body sprawled in a stunned heap. _

_But he was safe - he was out of harm's way. Hopefully Alistair would focus on Dean and Dean alone now that Twig was out of his sight-line._

_He barely got time to turn around, to try and track where Alistair was, when he felt a crushing, icy hand clamp down on his right knee, the grip bruising, careless as he was yanked backwards and flung. Dean narrowly missed the drop door as he landed, one shoulder slamming into the wall, glancing off of it with a dim crack before his torso met the floor. He blinked, momentarily dazed, struggling to catch his breath, to shake the pain off and clamber back to his feet, when he was slammed back to the rotting, dusty floor, that icy claw digging into his back to lift him again and shake him, scrabbling for purchase across the worn leather of his jacket. All Dean could do was let out a high, keening yelp of terror and pain as one of the talons sunk through the stiff material, catching on the bone of his right shoulder blade and yanking. His mind somersaulted and he could feel terror, real, bone-deep, suffocating terror sink into his consciousness, ripping away at the seams of reality. The attic became his cell, his cell was the attic - and Alistair was mad, he was really fucking pissed off because his prize, his personal pet one Dean Winchester almost made it - he almost escaped._

_But there was never any escape - only illusion and made hope and false comfort and pain without end._

_"Alistair -_ fuck_! Please - I'll go back, just_ please _-" he screamed, trying to crawl out from under the_ _hook that had his shoulder pinned to the floor. He writhed under the terrible, chilling pressure the need to fight outweighing the need to accept - even for Birch's sake. He mustered enough strength to squint across the dark expanse of (_his cell_) the attic, trying to find his friend, eyes watering from the pain as the (_claw_) hook gave another yank, a feeble yet very painful attempt to move him. "Birch! Run - I'm sorry, I'm sorry -_ fuck_!"_

_The (_Hellfire_) flames from the pail shot skyward once more, illuminating the dim space, dazzling Dean's eyes and highlighting Twig's crumpled form on the other side of the (_Gate_) trap door. He couldn't tell if the old man was even_ breathing_, everything was so still. He feared that maybe he was too late, that Alistair had gotten to him anyway - because if any creature could torment and kill multiple souls at once - it was his Master. But as fast as the thought flashed across his mind, the flames in the pail flared once more then died, puffing out with a suddenness that left an imprint behind his eyelids. There was another earsplitting screech, the sheer noise of it felt behind his ears as well as heard, then the (_claw_) hook in his back disappeared, replaced by baking flames right over his head, the heat tightening his skin across his exposed neck and face, forcing him to duck down and try to cover himself._

_It was over._

_Dean blinked across the sudden surrounding gloom, testing his limbs cautiously as he regained his footing, making his slow, careful way to where he had last seen his friend. He was left startled and unsure of his surroundings, but he had to check on Birch, had to make sure he had survived this..._whatever _was happening. Alistair, poltergeist - his mind was left spinning and confused, but he was sure if anything could anchor him in the Now, it would be his newest comrade-in-arms. It took several attempts though, to get his voice working, fear had caught, lodged in his vocal-cords and he was forced to clear his throat several times before he could make any sound other than a desperate squeak._

_"Birch?" he asked softly, shudder running through him as he flashed on Alistair coming out of the darkness to meet him, razor shining, shining, shining. "Birch you alright? Where -"_

_"Yeah, I'm here -" the old man returned breathlessly, appearing out of the shadows with a suddenness that had Dean barking a startled yelp, taking two steps backwards and almost falling through the drop door behind him. Birch whipped out a hand to steady him and Dean had to bite back a groan as his fingers clamped over the area of his shoulder that had met the wall with such bruising force. The pain helped ground him though, helped him focus as he stared in bewilderment at his surroundings, finally seeing the pail with its ashy, forlorn testament to one defeated poltergeist. _

_"Looks like we got 'em," Birch supplied cheerfully, face tight with concern and curiosity. "Are you okay, Dean?"_

_Dean looked around the attic, the image of his cell melting away as if it had never been, leaving him numb and horrified. He had fallen into a hallucination in the middle of a job - and over something so damned simple as a match and a highly motivated, angry spirit. Alistair had never been here - Alistair wasn't coming. But he knew he had seen him, he had felt his presence so vividly it was burned along each nerve ending, left the taste of bile and blood thick and cold in the back of his throat. In the end, though, 'Alistair' had been nothing but a nasty poltergeist with the ability to actually manifest and take form - dangerous, but nothing the caliber of the High Inquisitor and his cronies. Shame flooded him as he tried to force himself to look Birch in the face, assure him that all was well, even as he couldn't seem to meet his eyes._

_"Yeah," he croaked, trying to swallow past the lingering stench of (_irrational_) fear that was still caught in the back of his throat. "Yeah, I'm good."_

_He managed a wavering grin, shrugging off Birch's hand before turning to gather their things, the air still too close and hot for him to get a good gulp of oxygen, leaving him fighting for each breath. His eyes swam, a kaleidoscope of colors zigzagging across the lines of his vision as he tried to step forward, his traitorous legs rubbery and unwilling to hold him up, but only for a mere moment as he fought through it, willing his body to obey him - determined to get their stuff and get the fuck outta this hellhole. He registered Birch moving beside him, set to the same task and tried to tilt his head in that direction, bile churning in his gut as stars broke out in front of his eyes, little streams of light that pulsed with each throb of the headache that had never quite gone away._

_"Dean?" Birch called, his voice so close and warm to his ear and yet coming from a long way away all at once, the concern bleeding through, making each word circle back to him, muffled and heavy. "Are you okay, boy?"_

_"I'm great," Dean gasped. His lungs squeezed in shock as the air got thinner, each intake a chore, like trying to breathe through filthy water. A ringing started up right about then, faint but there, on the edges of his hearing and Dean tried to shake it off, mildly disconcerted when his head wouldn't obey his commands. "I'm frigging...awesome -"_

_He felt his upper body tilt forward, his panic distant and unimportant, as_ _everything around him folded into the dark._

"Christ," Dean gagged, tongue thick in his mouth as he leaned away from Birch's comforting hand, sure he would start heaving if the old man so much as _looked_ at him wrong right now, never mind actually touching him. "Oh, my fucking..._shit_ -"

But in the end, whether Twig did anything or not mattered very little in the grand scheme of things. Gravity and his queasy stomach were determined to meet and he found himself fumbling wildly for the door-handle, barely getting it open before all the coffee he had consumed that day came rushing back up in one spectacular wave. The scent of stale, burned java and that thick acidic, salt-grease odor of bile flooded his senses, overwhelming him as he retched helplessly, the mere sound of his own vomit hitting blacktop getting him started on a fresh round of pointless heaving before he had even properly finished with the first round.

Every muscle in his back and neck tensed, his stomach cramping in vague protest against the sheer violence of his sickness, which seemed to go on forever, but in reality was a mere minute or two at the most. It was exhausting, it was disgusting and it was thoroughly embarrassing. If he were Twig, he'd'a kicked his own damned sorry ass out of the friggin' truck in sheer disgust and disappointment. First he hallucinated (fucking _hallucinated_) in the middle of a job - and a semi-standard salt'n'burn job at that. Then he went and fainted like some willowy, romance novel chick - now this? Yeah, heaving your guts out while leaning out of your new friend's truck, praying you didn't hit the door with your upchuck was fucking _stellar_ - perfect capper to the perfect fucking day. This could only be topped with a bullet to the brain-pan - that would make this day of awesome truly frigging complete.

"Fuck -" he choked, the parking lot watery looking as he blinked back tears of shock, his throat feeling raw and maltreated every time he drew breath. He registered Birch's hand before it fell between his shoulder-blades, his body coiling against the contact before it could happen, each hair on his neck shivering to life as his senses screamed to pull away - pull away or go for round two of the Purge. Amazingly though, instead of retching again, the clenched fist that sat in his middle loosened, his muscles relaxing one by one as Birch made solid contact with his back, his touch not too heavy, but not too light, just resting his fingers below Dean's collar, steady, warm and _there_.

"I'm..." Dean took a deep breath, wincing as the very action seemed to burn his nose and throat, the taste of vomit clinging thickly to the back of his palate. He spit reflexively, taking another couple of gulps of the crisp autumn air, willing himself to ignore the roiling feeling in the pit of his stomach. "I'm so sorry, Twig, I..._god_...I'm just - I'm sorry."

He barely heard Birch's whispered assurances '_Nothing to be sorry for_' and '_Hold on there, Dean, that's it_' as he held himself propped against the door for a minute more, catching his breath while trying (and failing miserably) to get some sense of dignity back. Birch withdrew his hand after a quick pat on his uninjured shoulder, trying to help him regain his sense of balance and something deep inside cringed at the sudden need for Twig to put his hand back on his shoulder, give him something to cement himself with. He crammed that whimpering tidbit of weakness back down, burying it deep so he wouldn't have to see it and acknowledge that he had become _that_ guy. The guy who had just found himself shattered into a million pieces with no shards big enough to jigsaw back into the original form, the guy who was many things once upon a time, a long time ago - and was now just a cheap knock-off of that original. To say it was disheartening and depressing was a massive understatement.

At least he could say he remembered now - it wasn't so much an important event as a horrifying one, but it was emblazoned clear as crystal (to mix metaphors) into that steel trap he called a memory. Its only real importance was to highlight how even the simplest job (two-man type or no) was _completely_ beyond him at the moment. It stunned and infuriated him, that little revelation - it made him want to scream, to hit something - to fucking _kill_ something. But what was he going to kill? Monsters? Ghosts? Birch? _Himself_? Those last two were almost accomplished (and quite handily, too) a mere fifteen minutes ago by his sudden surge of PTSfuckingD and didn't _that_ shit just take the goddamned cake, platter and frigging serving knife, right then.

Fucking pathetic.

And now he was going to make himself even more fucking popular by bawling like a damned three year old with a dropped ice cream cone. Wouldn't that just get him right back in good esteem with Twig, just going for the full fucking package, there - seeing things, fainting, puking, then weeping like a woman. Yeah, he was a damned impressive motherfucker when he wanted to be.

He took a pause in kicking himself to slouch back in his seat, giving a weak tug on the truck door to swing it shut, blocking out the sight of his own failure seeping into the cracked tar of the parking lot. He couldn't look at Twig. He couldn't face the guy who had shown more bravery, more steel in the face of the unknown than the punk-ass who had brazenly led him to it, too full of himself to comprehend that he was endangering them both. He could feel the depression from earlier that morning trying to creep back in and forcefully willed it away, too scared to face what that depression meant - what it had been trying to tell him all along.

He could feel Twig's patient gaze sweep across him, the silence in the truck oppressive even as it was warmly encompassing, the questions and the concerns teetering on the tip of Birch's tongue crowding against the very air they were breathing. The only barrier between those words waiting to happen and the silence, was Twig's willingness to give him time. And time was anything but welcome to Dean. Time meant thinking, time meant _dealing_ - and after this fiasco disguised as a Hunt, Dean just didn't have the strength to do either.

He opened his mouth to speak and clamped his teeth shut again with an audible clack, horrified at the lump forming in his throat as he tried to come up with something adequate to say, something that would both reassure Birch and praise him in equal measure. But his quick tongue and easy wit died before words could even take shape behind his teeth, exhaustion and a unique heaviness across his insides dulling any response he could have made. He was relieved when Birch chose to speak up, his voice steady and calm, soothing even, as Dean tried to wrestle himself back to the present, back to being _Dean_ again. The old man's prattle helped some, giving him something to focus on, to reach towards while he pulled himself together, painting a mask that would suit him when he allowed himself to move, to talk, to think again.

"As you can guess, you kinda went belly-up there for a minute - not that I can blame you. That old man packed a hell of a wallop, even as dead as he is - he tossed you around pretty good there. I managed to lower you through the drop door and by the time I got you near the ground, you were somewhat conscious again and able to stand pretty good for a fella who was half-dead on his feet." Birch chuckled lightly to himself and Dean found his lips tugging in an answering smile, blinking his eyes open wearily, though he kept his gaze firmly in his lap.

"Yup," Birch continued, voice a little stronger as he realized Dean was fully there with him. "Bet you've had practice at being out while standing up - looks like you have just from how much you fought me as I tried to get us outta the house. Said you could walk, though I know you weren't seein' even five centimeters in front of your face, if that - whatever you were seein', it wasn't one foot going in front of t'other, I'll tell ya that right now. Seen that look on men before, during my time in The War..."

Twig lapsed into silence, fiddling with the truck's keys, the muted jangle a comfort and a fresh ache all at once as Dean was hit with a series of sense memories of the Impala. The warm stretch and crackle of her leather seats, the feel of sunlight falling across the back of his hand, smooth breeze in his face, shivering along the seam of his throat as he coaxed her down the open road, her smells a mixture of leather, heated metal, gun-powder, blood, gasoline and motor oil - her seat-back firm against the curve of his spine, even as he melted into it, the seat itself having contoured to his shape many years ago.

He missed her with a sudden fierce ache that was as alien to him as it was familiar, before it faded again - leaving that ache more of a numb throb. That odd sense of detachment crept up, bringing with it the concern that feeling _itself_ had become foreign and that terrified him on levels he couldn't describe. To have that mix of conflicting emotions in relation to the only true home he had ever known, well...like his feelings towards Sam, he still didn't know quite what to do with that - so he let it lie, until it could sort itself out, or until he could face it, whichever came first.

"So I...I got us out and you just seemed to snap back to yourself, I'm sure you remember that - and you seemed to be fine, seemed to be back to your old brass - at least until we got halfway to the truck." Dean could feel a cold tickle of dread start somewhere below his ribcage, webbing outwards as Birch spoke, the level of deep warmth and sympathy in his voice only fueling an urge to bolt or be sick again. "Then you...you started _talking_ funny."

"Talking funny?" Dean asked, amazed that the words came out so calm and smooth even when Birch's hesitant tone made his stomach curl in on itself again. That deep, cloying dread intensified until his jaw actually ached with the weight of it under his skin, an electric chill racing the fragile press of his spinal column, threatening to crack the surrounding bone structure. "Talking funny, how?"

"I dunno," Twig mused, his voice wondering and afraid, though it seemed only Dean could hear it - Birch's thoughtful tone masking the wrongness of what he thought he had heard. "Sounded like foreign language - though none like I've ever heard. Don't know how sounds like that could ever come from any common human speech - was kind of spooky to tell the truth."

"Ahhh," Dean responded glibly. "Spooky. Yeah."

He forced himself to look at his friend, dreading what he would see, whether it be mild curiosity or disgust or terror. He found none of those things though, as Birch returned the glance, his face an open plain of such understanding, Dean felt like a heel for expecting anything less. He relaxed under Birch's steady, calm scrutiny, the farmer's eyes as open and honest as the sunrise, a small brittle smile playing about his wizened features.

"Is it...is it okay, if I - I ask you something, Dean?" he whispered across the expanse of the cab, like Dean carried the most ancient of secrets that would crack apart under the grind of anything less than a soft tone - which, come to think of it, might have actually been true.

"Yes, Birch - you can ask me anything," the younger man supplied, lips numb, half-catching the words as they slid across his teeth - but knowing what he said was a truth (and relief all at once). Twig could ask him anything, _anything_ and he would gladly answer, if only to get this insane block of granite off of his chest. "Anything at all."

"Who - "

A vise squeezing, squeezing his insides (already knowing the question) even as he tried to breathe through it (to say it was to bring it home, make it real) but to do anything less was dishonest, dishonorable, _disgraceful_ -

" - is Alistair?"

Dean bit back a sound of choked surprise. Even though he was anticipating the question, he was still worlds away from prepared, the sensation of being caught flatfooted enough to leave him dizzy and breathless.

"So you remember that name, huh?" was his smooth deflection, taking a moment to bear up under an answer, to find the truth that was embedded in the thread of lies and nightmares that made the creature that bore that name what he was, to examine it with Birch and maybe make it less daunting.

"I remember rather vaguely you mentioning that name while we were in the attic, so I wasn't sure of it then, though I might be mishearing it in all the chaos. But when we were coming back here...when you...went away again for a moment, you mentioned that name - it was clear as a bell. Really, it was the _only_ clear thing you said. The rest was...jumbled - and it...it hurt my _ears_ of all things." Birch looked at him from under his eyebrows as if ashamed by what he had said, but Dean nodded in acceptance, granting absolution in the roll of his shoulders and rueful quirk of his lips.

"Yeah," he rasped thoughtfully. "I know what you mean. It just kind of...scrambles along your inner ear and digs at your mind, doesn't it?"

Twig nodded in relief and Dean gave him a trembling pat of reassurance on his arm, taking a gulping breath as he tried to find a way to explain it all.

"That language...that speech - isn't suppose to be heard out of a certain" _realm_ "area - does that make sense? I mean, it is bad enough while there, but ten times worse when heard out here..."

_Under the blue sky, over the green grass, clashing against the natural sounds of animals/birds/living things that make sense, curdling the sweet sip of oxygen that fills your lungs - _

Birch tilted his head, seeming to be able to hear what Dean was saying, even as he didn't have the strength to say it. He nodded in acceptance, realizing he didn't fully comprehend what the young man was talking about, but willing to try at the very least.

Dean licked his lips, trying to find a way to make all this, all that he had seen and been through - what/who Alistair was and what that meant easier to grasp, easier to take in small chunks without choking on the terror of it.

"Alistair -"

"That's not right," Birch interrupted, shaking his head. "That doesn't - it doesn't sound..._wrong_ enough. When you started speaking in that, that odd way - you said his name different, you...you called him -"

" - _Alistair_," Dean broke in, shivering as the name rolled over his tongue in that familiar, tainted way - the very taste of it vile and incomprehensible to the shape of his mouth. It came to him unbidden, the High Speech of Hell as deeply ingrained as the feel of his Colt 1911, the taste of a tired hotel room, the warm presence of his brother - even more so than all these things combined, if possible. The intonation was like a raping squeal against the vocal cords, tumbling out in a cascading hiss of slithering noise, more of a psychic scream than actual sound, the feeling of it hitting the air like a hole being ripped across the cosmos, unnatural and wrong and hateful.

Birch instinctively shrunk back into his seat, as if to escape that abomination of a word in such intimate confines as the truck, hands flying up to dig behind his ears, a muted whimper tumbling from his slack jaw. He turned a distinctive green color, gulping quickly while taking deep shallow breaths and Dean immediately felt sorry for staining the comfort of the man's machine, his eyes sorrow and terror and a bottomless calm, one steadying hand hovering over Birch's wrist, mouth twisted in a line of regret.

"I'm sorry - I'm sorry, Twig, I -"

"No." The old man swallowed, color slowly seeping back into his features. Dean could only admire his resilience as he straightened in his seat, breathing falling back into a normal rhythm after a beat or two of time, his own smile as rueful and sad as Winchester's. "I asked for it, I stepped in it - so I can't cry about it...but - that was it. Right there, it was like - like -"

"Nothing of this world," Dean replied, face hollowed out and far older than Twig could even comprehend.

If Twig himself lived to be a thousand, he would never see such lines and emptiness reflected back in the mirror and that thought alone made him quake inside with fear - not _of_ Dean, but for him. He tightened his mouth so it wouldn't bleed out across his tongue,that useless lump of flesh almost always willing to do him in somehow. But Dean saw it anyway, his whole being absorbing what could not be said and tucking it away somewhere deep inside the safe zone of his soul. Instead of being angry, instead of being dismissive or vehement or righteous, he smiled - and it was a smile filled with such sweetness, such _youth_ that Birch found himself staggered at the sudden switch.

He was glimpsing what Dean was, what he had been - and he was surprised that the man beside him would share such a thing. He could tell from the moment he had seen him on the side of the road that this young man carried himself wrapped in a shield, protecting himself and others around him from the raw scrape of his emotions, his thoughts - and in that one second, he could see Dean asking his permission to do just that - to crack the edge of the shield and let Twig see what was underneath.

There was no answer but one - and Twig could only hope his nod in return told Dean that he would be honored to take such a burden, such a gift and keep it safe within his own soul. Dean's eyes flickered for a moment, his thoughts flaring like a bright light for a split second, too fast for Birch to see the verdict, but he didn't have to wait long, Dean's jaw tensing once, eyes pulling away only to shift back to him, his expression as serious as the grave.

"I think...I think I can tell you what that name means, what it is about, but first I need to swing by that house just one more time. You can tool around the block while I go in - it's nothing dire, just something that needs doing before we're actually done with this Hunt. Then we need to grab some lunch as I dunno about you, but I'm kind of hungry. I hate talking on an empty stomach and well, since I seem to have lost everything on the ground out there, it's probably a good idea if I refuel before I get to talking." Birch nodded his agreement. Talking was more easily done on a full stomach, and better still when aided by something with lots of cholesterol and other stuff deemed bad for you.

"After that," Dean continued, voice still soft with thought, like he was making a decision as he spoke. "After that, I think we need to get moving. If you don't mind, I'd like to tell you a story. It's a rather long story, but just I ask you to just bear with me and hear me out while I tell it. I can't tell it while we're sitting still though - not here anyway. It's a story for the road, not for the parking lot of a shitty, broken-down playground, you know?" His lips shifted in a small, sad smile - eyes straight ahead on that same shitty playground, like the depressing view held all the answers he could give.

"I just - I need..." Dean trailed off on that last word, unable to articulate what he needed from Birch - but needing it all the same. "You've - you've given me alot today, Birch. I can't expect more from you than what you've already given. You've already given way more than is probably right for some strange punk-ass drifter hitching a ride to kill a poltergeist, but this...this is the only payment I can give back. I know that doesn't make any sense, but -"

"Sure it does," Birch said softly. "It makes perfect sense. The best payments are in stories anyhow, s'far as I reckon. It would be even better if this is a true story. So...is it - a true story?"

Dean looked at him then, the shine that had been such a part of him when they met slowly reawakening, giving him a look of peace. He looked like a man who had been granted redemption and had been visited by Heaven's Grace. He was such a contradiction, Dean was - and that was what made Birch so happy that out of all those who could have picked him up from the side of the road, it was one Birch 'Twig' Collins. He always did have a nose for adventure, an ear for a tale - and an eye for those rough cut gems. Nancy said he was one himself, but he didn't know about all that - he just knew that he had made an odd, but true friend - and that was worth almost eighty years on Earth if nothing else was.

He shone a grin back at Dean, leaning forward to kick start his old girl, basking in the glow of Dean Winchester's moment of happiness. It was amazing that he had missed the moment when it had slid away, but it had only been gone a short while, so that was all right. Dean grinned the grin of whispered secrets and roguish adventure and said -

"Well, it may be a true story...may not be. I feel that should all be left up to the listener, don't you think?" His green eyes were just _shining_ with mischief.

Birch smiled so hard his cheeks ached and nodded, feeling all of twelve again with his Pappy dangling him on his knee, tall tales of knights and dragons and treasures ready to be shared until sleep called, his joy reflected in the rumbling purr of the ancient Chevy's engine as she started to life, the open road calling all adventurers as it always did, since there were roads to be imagined.

But before the promised tale could start, they had one last errand to run. It was over quick enough - he dropped Dean near the house that once belonged to a man called Tomkins (and was now just an ordinary house with a For Sale sign in the yard) with a worn-looking leather diary in his hand and took one tour around the block before picking him up again, his hands empty, but his shoulders somehow lighter. Birch longed to say something about that, but wisely kept his observation to himself, turning the old truck around to retrace the way they had come in, the quiet inside her cab making him antsy until Dean finally took a mercy on him five minutes further down the road, that smile shining and shining away on his young-old face.

"I feel," Dean started, his cadence and tone that of one used to telling stories (and fantastic ones at that). "I feel that every tale should start at the beginning. This one starts over twenty-five, twenty-six years ago in the town of Lawrence, Kansas. It starts in a rather old, two-story house, in the suburbs and while that may be important in many ways, this isn't so much about the house itself, or even where it is located even though both are kinda important in the end. No, this story is really about the people that lived inside that house and what happened to them there on the night of November 2, 1983..."

They stopped at a local Arbys and got food that was consumed without tasting, the old Chevy putting the sub-city of Bellevue in her rear-mirror, so much dust and memories, as Dean told the story of a young family and how in one night, their blissful suburban dream met its tragic end. He told Birch of a young mother who made a deal with a demon so long, long ago (and yet in such a short span from the beginning of the tale itself) to save her lover and husband-to-be, losing everything else she held dear along the way. He told of the deal, how it came due just ten years later, on the night of the second child's six month birthday and how she recognized the thing that had saved her husband, even as it destroyed her own parents - and made a valiant attempt to save her child from whatever evil the creature intended against her baby. How a wife and a mother, a keeper of complicated and dark secrets herself, a one-time hunter of evil from a long line of them, met her own end above her youngest son's crib, thus setting off a chain of events that led a stunned and grieving widower down the path of vengeance, his two small sons in tow - unwittingly putting in motion a saga that to this day continued on. The little family, now minus one, becoming legends in their own time as they followed a killer who left no trace of itself, their destinies set on the long road towards revenge...


	9. Chapter 9

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Five**

**Part One**

**'Drop the Bombshell'**

_**Now I'm not the same because you're not the same - And you're not the same because I'm not the same - And we're not the same this could never be the same - And we just want to survive**_** - Powerman5000**

_"Tell me a story."_

_"Sammy -"_

_"Please...please, please,_ please_? I finished my s'getti-os - and my milk. You_ promised_!"_

_"You sure you don't want this Hershey's bar, instead? It's the last one..." In a wheedling tone._

_"No - I like Nestle's -"_

_"Freak."_

_"M'not! Please, Dean?"_

_A sigh, some minor rustling around in the dark, a creak of bed-springs as Dean settled his warm weight beside Sammy's, covers tucked around the smaller boy's frame automatically._

_"You_ are _a freak. But okay, okay - don't start whining again. Gotta tell a story, right? What kinda story you want?"_

_"A scary story."_

_"_C'mon_, Sammy!"_

_"Deeeeaaaann -"_

_"Alright, alright - but no complaining, 'kay? I know you've heard this one before, like a million times, but I'm too tired to come up with anything else -"_

_"Is it Superman?"_

_"No, it's not_ Superman_, dork-face, but you'll know it - now shut up or I'm gonna go to sleep and you can have a story tomorrow -"_

_"Okay, okay - I'm quiet, see?"_

_Some more shifting, the solid, heavy warmth of a small child leaning against his chest, ear pressed just so against his heart, as if to hear all of him better._

_"Once upon a time -"_

_"That's lame."_

_"What?"_

_"Once upon a time - it's lame!"_

_"No, it's not - d'ya want the story or not?"_

_"Yeah -"_

_"Then lemme tell it, Sammy - geez!"_

_"Okay -"_

_"_Alright _then - once upon a time -"_

_"Still lame." But under his breath, easily ignored._

_" - there was a beautiful lady -"_

_"How beautiful? What did she look like?"_

_"She had long, golden hair, green eyes like me and rosy cheeks - like you."_

_"I'll bet she was really pretty." _

_"She was, Sammy. Anyway - she lived in a big house with a scary tree out front and a big yard for playing in."_

_"Sounds awesome, Dean."_

_He grinned in the dark and snuggled the little warm body closer, circling his arms around the little boy shoulders, comforted and safe with the little boy head laid against his chest, soft hair tickling his chin as he spoke._

_"It was, Sammy. Anyway, in this awesome house, with the scary tree and big backyard, there were two little boys -"_

_"What were their names?"_

_"Their names were Sammy and Dean and the beautiful lady loved them very much - as much as she loved her husband - a big smiling man with dark hair and a big laugh."_

_"He sounds nice, Dean."_

_"He was..." Softly. "They all lived very happily in this big house and they ate cookies every day and played outside in the big yard until it was dark -"_

_"I like cookies."_

_"I know you do, Sammy. Want some chocolate?"_

_"Only if you have some."_

_Five sticky, chocolaty minutes later, bellies contented and minds sleepy and bodies warm, the story continued._

_"They played every day in the backyard til it was dark. And they drank things like sweet iced tea and had barbecue and played games like softball and tag - the pretty lady, the dark haired man and their Sammy and Dean. They were happy and safe and laughed lots together, in their big house with the scary tree and awesome backyard. But one day, when the pretty lady was sleeping a big scary monster came to the house and saw how happy and safe and content they all were and he was mad at the pretty lady. So he started a fire in their awesome house -"_

_"Oh no!"_

_"The pretty lady caught the monster though and tried to fight 'im, but he was a big, bad scary monster and try as she might, she couldn't win. Her husband, with the dark hair and big laugh and strong arms was a hero, but the monster still almost got_ /ihimi_. He didn't defeat the monster, but he vowed to do so one day because he wasn't able to save his pretty lady from the scary monster - or from the big fire the monster made. So he said he would find it one day and he would kill it, but he promised the pretty lady he would look after their children, so he took Sammy and Dean and ran from the awesome house that burned all up with the pretty lady and the monster inside -"_

_"That's sad," said in a small snuffly voice. "Poor lady - did Sammy and Dean love her as much as she loved them?"_

_"They did Sammy, I know they did."_

_"That's good then..." Sadly._

_"But the hero saved Sammy and Dean and he traveled around the country and saved other pretty ladies and_ their _Sammys and Deans from bad monsters who would eat them up -"_

_"How come no one could save the lady and her hero and her Sammy and Dean from the monster that came and got _her_?"_

_"I dunno, Sammy...sometimes...sometimes for a story to begin, bad things_ happen_, you know? So that heroes can be made, sometimes beautiful things must be lost - it's just the way stories go."_

_"I'm glad for the stories - but...I wish bad things didn't happen, Dean." The little boy shuffled closer for comfort and warmth._

_"I know, Sammy - " Dean said tightly, hugging the little body close as if to keep all the bad things away."I know..."_

**0-0-0**

**4:01PM **

It had been a long tale, but a good one, filled with adventures, mayhem, secrets, ghosts, demons, love and family - and Twig found himself so wrapped in the magic of it he had to truly fight to concentrate on the road and keep the old girl's wheels to the pavement. The story that Dean spun seemed too fantastic, too out of this world - but the edge of truth, the personal tone to it all made Birch wonder, made him question everything that he had known for the last seventy-eight years he had breathed upon the Earth. Tomkins was one thing, that was enough of a ground-shaker there - but this...this changed his whole concept of the reality he had lived in. In some ways, for the better, but in many other ways...well, he'd need some time to process that.

Not that he didn't have anything _but_ time on his hands.

They had made good strides while on the road, further along than Birch had calculated for. They were twenty minutes out from Corydon (their original destination, ironically) and his friend had just reached the part where the elder brother (who had sold his soul to a demon to bring his younger brother Sam, back to life, erasing his tragic death at the hands of one he had called a friend) was getting ready to face off with the Hounds of Hell, their demonic adversary nowhere to be found and the clock chiming his final minutes on earth. Twig could feel his heartbreak as Dean told of the young man trying to bolster his devastated younger brother, the elders remorse at leaving him behind, knowing the pain and anger that would be left in his wake - as the elder brother (Dean) had felt that same himself, a year ago to that day. He was just getting to where the Dean was laying down lines of this weird hoodoo mix called goofer dust in the doorway, trying to stave off the inevitable - when the Dean of now broke off, his eyes becoming more distant if possible, his tone taking on a hollowed echo, voice almost haunted as he stiffened in the passenger seat.

"Dean?"

"You'll see her - down the road. She'll come sleek and fast like black lightning -"

"Dean - what are you -"

"She'll purr like a panther as she flies over the black-top. Behind her wheel is a tall man, face determined, set solely on one purpose - the two as one as they hunt their prey."

"Dean -"

"Keep driving. You'll see what I mean - I can't let him...I can't let him see me. I can't let him hear me - he'll know somehow..."

Dean clammed up and seemed to..._melt_...into his seat, his eyes wide and panicked when Birch tried to coax him into talking. They hadn't seen another soul on this road for quite a few minutes. It was hardly more than a service road, really. Birch used it for cut-throughs all the time, but unless you knew about it (unless you were a local) there would be no reason for you to be on this route.

He was in for a surprise though.

Just over the next rise he heard the groaning purr of a powerful engine, a classic car from the sounds of it. He heard her before he saw her, but when he did finally see the vehicle, it caught his breath in his throat. It was like she had driven straight out of Dean's story - all sleek, black lines on a powerful frame, her ancient, proud body hugging the curves of the road as if she owned it, her presence startling, even a little menacing in the late afternoon sunlight. This was a car made of and for nighttime and shadows - not for rush hour and bumper to bumper traffic jams.

His old truck seemed to shrink from the newcomer as it got closer, the man behind the wheel of the car tall, very tall indeed ('giant' was the first thought that popped into Birch's head) and he watched with wonder as the tall man glanced at him and his vehicle, those eyes startlingly familiar in an unfamiliar face, as he was scanned then dismissed from thought, man and machine gone just as quickly as they had come. He shivered as they disappeared over the next rise, the engine heard long after they were gone, the sudden silence left behind like a dash of cold water to the face. The feeling of being scrutinized, searched - then openly willed out of existence was...well, he hadn't felt anything like that since 'Nam, that was for sure.

"That was..." Twig finally said, his voice strangled at the surreal quality the last two minutes had taken on. "That was -"

"Sam." Dean sighed, body uncoiling from the passenger door. "That was Sam."

"Wait - Sam, your -"

"My brother, yes," was the simple reply.

"Well, should we - I mean -"

"_No_!" Dean barked. Then softer, his voice heavy with regret and apology. "No - just...just keep going, Twig. Sam has to go his way...and I -"

He shrugged, eyes still hollow and far away, his lips twisted in a sad grimace, a plea for forgiveness and pain all in one.

"I'm sorry...I'm sorry, Twig - just...just drive, okay? There's..there is a convenience store up ahead. Just past Corydon - remember? Where we got gas and coffee when we started this adventure. Last round's on me - alright?"

"But until then will you...will you finish the story?" Twig asked, hating himself for asking - but needing to know that he could keep Dean, just for a little while longer.

"Until we come to the end, sure, Twig - I'll finish. But - and this sounds crazy, I know - I don't think this story has an end. Not yet, anyway." Dean shrugged, the ache falling away from his face as he twisted to look at his friend, a smile that never quite reached his eyes flickering over his lips, chasing away the look of sadness. He brief smile flashed understanding - and gratitude for the same as he relaxed back into the worn seat, duffle shifting between his feet. And if Twig wasn't mistaken, the same duffle that had been carried through this very same story Dean was telling, all these long years into now.

"No good story does," Twig answered enigmatically, awe coloring his voice before he settled back into his own seat, falling back into the fantastic world of supernatural and sacrifice as Dean took back up the threads where they left off: the clock chiming the Hellhounds for their prey, as the brothers faced their adversary (the demon known as Lilith), hidden in plain sight.

The end was near.

**0-0-0**

_Some of the biggest sacrifices are comprised of the smallest, most simplest of things. Love, hope, family - all small on the grand scale, really. But huge when it comes to the impact they have on an ordinary person (and some not so ordinary) and the paths it will take them on._

_But some of the smaller sacrifices, the ones you aren't even aware of making - can become big in retrospect. Walking away, leaving someone behind, saying 'enough', saying I'm sorry, or not saying anything at all - can lead to much bigger things. _

_But what is sacrifice? Giving up? Giving in? Or giving way?_

_Maybe none of these things. _

_Maybe all of them. _

_It is never left up to the person that everything is sacrificed for. It is never left up to the person who does the sacrificing. It is left up to those left over, to those who stand on the outside, looking in. _

_Like with a good story (or even a bad one) - it is never the narrator who decides, but the listener._

_What is truth and what is a good story. What is sacrifice and what is inevitable._

_And if there is even a difference._

**0-0-0**

**7:22PM**

"I'm tellin' ya Bobby, he's not even here anymore."

"Sam - just hang tight, okay? I'll be there in the next hour - we'll figure it out together. Just...just wait for me? You idjit? No sense tearin' around unknown territory without your bearings. All that'll do is get Dean lost to us that much quicker - and you too exhausted to work that computer mojo you got goin' on over there."

"I know...I know - I just...I feel like I just missed him somehow. That I had him _this_ _close_ and...and -"

"I know, boy - I know it's tough. But this is Dean, right? No one knows him like you do."

"Yeah," Sam sighed, tongue tinged with bitterness. "No one knows him like I do."

'_And I feel like I don't know him at all anymore._'

"I'll wait - but I'll keep throwing out the net. Can't hurt."

"No, no it can't - look Sam, I'm hittin' a tunnel - I'll call you when I'm close, then we'll go from there, okay?"

"Okay - thanks, Bobby. For everything."

"No thanks needed," was the gruff reply. "Someone's gotta look out for you boys."

The call might have been over, but it didn't stop Sam from pacing. Pacing and dialing Dean's phone endlessly while the computer tried to track the location of the GPS signal on his cellphone.

Which did absolutely no good if the damned phone was shut off.

"Dammit!"

He checked the urge to throw his cellphone at the wall, settling for tossing it on 'Dean's' bed, while he dropped on the other, wishing he could just crawl under the covers and make the world fade away until his brother came back to haul him once more into the land of the living. Or the land of the undead, take your pick.

He had been in the sub-city of Bellevue barely an hour and he already knew two things. Dean had been here hours ago and he was already gone - once again, hours ago by his estimation. Otherwise his brother would be knocking on his door, ready to take a few taps to Sam's face to make his point about how pissed he was at him. Which hadn't happened - and in all likelihood, wouldn't happen. The town just felt...Deanless - the trail for his brother barely led here and here was where it seemed to end.

On his way in, he had called the clerk's office at the Hall of Records, to find that Dean Forrester had already called and gotten information on one Russell Tomkins, deceased. After assuring Micah and Sydney that he was just double checking his employee's work - good job on them - he hung up, resisting the urge to chuckle at finally getting to call his brother his subordinate, something Dean would have loathed, but Sam would have guffawed over.

If he had been in the mood to laugh.

He had all the information on the Tomkin house pulled up in the computer within mere minutes of getting his hotel room. How many deaths in the house, the curious fact that those deaths were only residents and owners - and the handful of accidents, all construction workers there to fix up the property. All these accidents and deaths occurred in one area, too, so it was dollars to donuts that Dean had figured it out and had torched whatever he had found in the attic that had made the poltergeist (a nasty customer by all accounts) manifest and start throwing people, furniture and small pets around. There were only a few ways to take care of a 'geist and torching the possession tying them here was just step one - for step two you needed magick, a cleansing ritual to be precise - and he figured Dean had known that and taken the necessary route to get it done.

The lovely 'city' of Bellevue only boasted one occult shop - and while the clerk confirmed the items bought, he gave the very disappointing answer that Dean himself didn't buy them - nor had anyone matching his description. An old man had bought them, had a list and everything - but he was the only customer that day that had bought those items specifically. And why yes, they were open late - til nine, actually. So this left Sam with a game-plan and an hour to kill until Bobby hit town.

First stop the occult shop, next stop, Tomkin's former residence.

He double-checked that the laptop hadn't found anything (of course not - that would make things simple) and shut it down, gather his cellphone and the Impala's keys on his way out the door. For his first step, things were pretty easy, the shop being only three blocks away - and though it was not the best neighborhood in the world, it wasn't as bad as some that Sam Winchester had called home. He set off on foot, noting the fading daylight as he made his way along, ignoring the rumbling in his belly as he passed a Chinese eatery advertising 'Fresh Hot Eggrolls' and waited for the light at the crosswalk, the crumbling letters announcing Bellevue's Magic Emporium affixed firmly above the shop's door, right at the corner of Main and Castle streets.

Two seconds in he knew he had hit the jackpot, even as it only disheartened him further. The shop owner still had the list (Dean's blocky, painfully neat print practically jumping off the page) and though he stated that an old man had bought the items, it had been just about as they had opened, around 12 noon. So Sam knew Dean had most likely paid someone to buy the herbs and clothe for him, just so he wouldn't have to show his face - but still...the list in his hand showed that Dean had been there, at least in spirit, mind focused on the job - on getting the job done and moving on.

As Sam walked back (once again, forcing his stomach to ignore the smell of hot pork, fried rice and sweet oil from the eatery) he worried on the problem of Dean, the job and on whether the job was done. A 'geist was easily a two man job, no one man could take on a poltergeist of this caliber of nastiness and not come away unscathed. So as he walked back to the car he called the nearest hospital and the nearest police station, only for any further hope to be shot out of the sky as Dean's description didn't match anyone admitted or arrested within the last twenty four to forty eight hours. Not that he hoped Dean was in a jail cell or hospital bed, but it would make finding him a hell of a lot easier.

All that was left was the Tomkin house - and if that was a bust, he was once again at loose ends. No leads, no hope of any leads and dead in the water before he even started.

Not that he had much hope to begin with, but - he had held some.

So his heart was already heavy when he got into the Impala, pointing her towards the suburbs and Tomkins house. He already knew that when he got there that either Dean was dead on the floor of the attic (or heading that way) or the job was done and he had blown town hours ago. There was never any middle ground with Dean, always one or the other - dead or gone, gone or dead.

Ten minutes later he was circling the block, driving past the Tomkins house with a big 'For Sale' sign leaning forlornly on the front lawn, the windows empty and dark. He knew parking there would probably be a big neon sign for anyone driving past - kind of a 'Hello, I'm breaking in!' neon sign that he just didn't need, so he took the classic muscle car over to the next block, almost sighing in relief when he found a park sign at the next corner. She'd still stand out like a sore thumb, but not half as bad as if he parked her smack-dab in the middle of a thriving neighborhood, everyone just sitting down to dinner, wondering what the fucking hell a Chevy Impala was doing in front of an abandoned house.

He trundled the old girl to the parking area, backing her into a space in front of a shitty playground, the weathered and disused swings swaying in the breeze that had kicked up fifteen minutes ago, the whole area looking frayed and haunted in the dimming light. Sam suppressed a shiver as he clambered out of the car, nimbly stepping around an ancient looking splash of vomit near the Impala's rear door, moue of distaste pulling his mouth into a frown as he grabbed his salt, the EMF meter and Dean's spare Colt 1911 with a handful of iron rounds. Even if the 'geist was taken care of, it never hurt to take precautions. He grabbed his medical kit after a seconds thought, hoping that he wouldn't find his brother dead or dying in the house, but wanting to be prepared for anything.

For some reason, he glanced back at the vomit, then the swing-set in all it's tattered glory and felt another shiver, similar to the one he had felt while driving earlier in the afternoon. The service road he had taken had been pretty free of traffic, but at one point he had bypassed an old Chevy truck, the cherry red of the vehicle long faded to a washed out Pepto-Bismol pink - and he had felt Dean around somewhere, watching him, hiding from him - but it had turned out to be an old man trundling by in his ancient and crusty truck, returning his stare with a look of bewilderment before he topped the next rise, disappearing as fast as he had come. This feeling was close - like if he turned quickly enough, he just might see his brother, his mouth filled with endless snark and soft cajoling.

_Hop to it Samantha, we haven't got all day..._

Sam gasped, spinning quickly to see if he could find the source of that voice - so sure was he that it was real, that Dean was standing just behind him. All he got in return for his hesitant call was the breeze tossing the treetops, creaking the swings in the miserable excuse for a playground. Dean wasn't here - hadn't ever been in this parking lot he was sure. His mind was playing tricks on him. He wondered briefly if that was the odd side effect of drinking demon's blood, then dismissed it, uneasy at the idea that such a thing could have side effects - because side effects meant other unpleasant things. Like addiction. And there was no way he -

Sam shook it off, pissed that he was wasting time piddling around in a parking lot while he could be finding his brother (slim as that hope was) where he was last supposed to be, and took off towards the Tomkin's house (listed on the books as Bernstile Manor) his hope curdling in the pit of his stomach with each step he took.

**0-0-0**

_"You're crazy, you know that?"_

_"Awww, Sammy - it was just a little love-tap. You got the damned thing didn't you?"_

_"Dean -" Exasperated. "It tossed you down a flight of stairs..._a flight of STAIRS _- when are you gonna -"_

_"Didn't hurt nothin', did it? You're always the one saying the knocks to the head can't be doing much damage. Ain't much up there, right?" Said with that sharpness to his tone, his meaning a two-edged sword that could cut and skewer with a flippant wave of the hand. "So - no harm done."_

_"Yeah...yeah, Dean - no harm done." More of a sigh than an acknowledgement to his words._

_"That's my boy." A clap of a warm, calloused palm to his shoulder. "What say we get some lunch? I'm starvin'!"_

**0-0-0**

**7:52PM**

Getting into the Tomkin's house had been a breeze. Dean hadn't bothered to relock it on his way out - so Sam had no problems just opening the door and strolling right in.

So that was one question down.

He had walked the house, wishing he had thought to bring his flashlight, as he strolled through the empty, dusty rooms, discarded furniture rising like ghosts through the gloom, causing him to sidestep quickly more than once. He took note of the holes to the west and south of the house, nodding to himself as he made his way to where the drop-stairs for the attic were located, curious to find the stairs still in plain sight. Dean must have left in a hurry - or left hurt if the few smeared blotches of darkness against the wall were any indication.

That is - if he had left at all.

Sam had suppressed a shiver and climbed the rickety excuse for a ladder into the attic, the darkness falling around him like a warm blanket, leaving him scrabbling for a light-switch. It took a few seconds of feeling along the walls, but he finally found it, praying the power was still on. It was - for all of two seconds - but it gave him enough time to snatch up the Mag-Lite at his feet, while he blinked through the after-glare the bright flash had left behind, mouth quirked in amusement that there was a flashlight right the fuck there for him to grab.

So it was his day, even if it so wasn't.

It was almost as if Dean knew he was coming and had left little clues behind so that Sam could find them. The thought sobered Sam quickly - as he knew Dean had done anything but. This level of sloppiness from his brother actually worried him now that he had a moment to think about it. Dean wasn't sloppy and he generally picked up after himself while on the job - which meant he had been seriously hurt or distracted.

He shone the beam around the attic, taking note of the havoc that had been wreaked in the small space. It was a massive junk-pile (enough to leave Sam twitching at the thought of spiders everywhere) but certain portions of the junk looked seriously disturbed. As he swept the beam to his left he noticed a huge (though blurry) man-shaped dent in the piles of discarded lamps, papers and books - though oddly, the dent looked smaller than it should have if Dean had landed there. He quickly realized that Dean, indeed, was long gone - and while that depressed him, it also gave him hope. Dean had gone up against a 'geist - by himself - and had limped away under his own power. That right there...that was impressive - and Sam felt a surge of little brother triumph at the thought.

He walked the tiny space quickly, tall frame bent at an awkward angle as he took in the metal pail with the ashy remains of what looked to be a book and the swath of disturbed dusty and debris on the other side of the drop-stairs - most likely where Dean was flung next after he set a match to Tomkin's book. There were a couple of droplets of blood smeared here and there - but nothing really noticeable (or majorly life threatening) so with a heavy heart, Sam climbed back down, automatically taking out his handkerchief to wipe down the smears of grime and blood on the wall near the hallway, erasing what evidence he could of his brother's presence.

He closed up the drop-stairs, tucking the string in the light fixture nearby for appearance's sake and trained the flashlight's beam at his feet as he walked, hoping that no one was looking too hard at the windows as he passed them - sudden paranoia gripping him as he made for the back door. He angled to cut through the living room to save on time, clicking off the Mag-Lite as he half-walked, half-ran through the house, angry that Dean wasn't here, but relieved that Dean wasn't here all at once. He was three quarters of the way through the parlor area when he tripped, pinwheeling his arms to catch himself as something heavy, yet light-sounding slid across the gritty hardwood floor, stopping with a thump against the far wall.

"The fuck -" Sam whispered, crouching down and flicking the flashlight on for a mere second to see what his foot had hit.

It looked like...it looked like -

"No." He wasn't sure if he had actually said (squeaked) the word out loud, or if he had only thought it - but the way his mind froze afterwards, leaving him gawping at the object a few feet to his right. Well - one could hardly blame him. It showed that Dean had been here and left in one piece alright, but..it also told him that his brother was not coming back, either.

"God, Dean, _why_?"

But there was no one there, real or imagined, to answer him.

**0-0-0**

_He wasn't fond of woods, never really had been. Too many Dad-enforced hikes, drills and survival tests had happened in woods just like these for him to ever feel completely happy when all he saw when he looked around was trees, trees and more trees. _

_His only comfort at this moment was the fact that Dean hated forests more than he did - and he had thrived under Dad's strict rules and militia-like training. Well, if you call growing up to be the perfect foot soldier and cannon fodder with a lucky streak thriving. But he shouldn't take it out on him - it wasn't Dean's fault that they were mere days away from Jessica's funeral, miles into deep woods with no communication lines to the outside - and no Dad around to explain himself. Explain why he had them trooping through a Wendigo's hunting ground on his coordinates, supposedly to meet him right here - and him being just as scarce as Haley's missing brother._

_He needed time to think, he needed time to process the anger that was slowly simmering back to the surface, all the old resentments and hurts from four years ago boiling back up as if they had never truly gone away - and really, now that he had that time to think, he guessed that they never had truly dissipated. Just gotten buried beneath pop-quizzes, mid-terms, part-time jobs and college life in all of its boring, yet hectic glory. But here he was, right back where he never wanted to be, alongside a brother he truly never expected to see again after that last exhausting, fury-fueled phone call between the two of them almost three years ago. The brother he had hung up on after calling him every low, dirty name in the book, phone tossed across the room to disintegrate into the far wall, sure that Dean would never speak to him again._

_And Dean didn't, not for the longest time (especially if you factor in Dean-time). But here they were now, looking for Dad while hunting a Wendigo of all things (what a way to slide back into hunting easy) and Sam knew, just_ knew _that Dad wasn't here - he never was here, he had never planned on being here and while he knew this wasn't Dean's fault, he found himself gearing up to pick a fight anyway, wanting his brother to be angry too, to be pissed at being used and tossed aside like a tool that had out-lived its main purpose, but still maintained that certain slot in the bottom drawer._

_But that just wasn't Dean. It never was - and maybe (just maybe) Sam resented him for that (just a bit)._

_But the fight never really happened. In his head, yeah - but Dean just slid in and tried to make it better, so damned Dean and Big Brother that Sam was just left tired and ragged out, too exhausted to do much other than put up a token protest at Dad's absence._

_And found that Dean pretty much suspected what he did - Dad wasn't in Lost Creek. He never had been, he never would be. This was just another hunt tossed their way, another training mission, another exercise and Sam found it hard to do anything but resent the man that called himself a father, but behaved more like an absent-minded uncle that had inherited them in a will. _

_"Then let's get these people back to town and let's hit the road, go find dad. I mean why are we still in here? " _

_"This is why..." Dean hefted Dad's journal, eyes boring through Sam's own, wanting him,_ needing _him to understand._

_He held the leather-bound tome with an absent reverence, like the volume was the next best thing to a Holy Grail and to a hunter, maybe it was. It reminded Sam alot of Dad, just in the look of it - all grizzled and worn, but holding together through years of wear and tear, insides slowly coming apart even as the seams around it held tight, refusing to give in to age, time, weather or mishandling. It saddened Sam to think that soon, his brother would be like his Dad - like Dad's book - and that he would be unlucky enough to watch it happen._

_"This book." He said it almost pleadingly, eyes shining with awe." This is dad's single most valuable possession. Everything he knows about every evil thing is in here - and he's passed it on to us. I think he wants us to pick up where he left off - you know,_ saving _people, __**hunting**__ things. The family business..."_

_That phrase over time would become their code (though Sam didn't know that then) and that leather-bound, double rubber-banded tangle of fading notes, torn pages and wrinkled newspaper clippings_ did _become the Holy Grail, long after Dad had died - and long before Dean blazed a trail to Hell. _

_It had become their manual, their shared secret, their catch-all and their anchor._

_It was the single most important piece of equipment they had - and Dean always made sure it was never very far from his grasp._

_Until Sam stumbled over it in the dark, dust-encrusted living room of a poltergeist-that-was named Tomkins and it only meant one thing._

_Dean wanted him to pick up where he left off -_

_But Sam wasn't so sure he could do that anymore - especially after he discovered what awaited him inside the battered cover of the Winchester's Holy Grail, the worn binding hiding one final secret and yet another heartbreak that had sealed the fates of their entire family and set them on the path to their downfall._

**0-0-0**

**5:53PM**

Saying good-bye to Twig had been hard.

It was one of the hardest things he had ever done, actually - and in the Dean Winchester book of hard things, that was saying a lot.

He had ended the story with his rise from Hell and his initial meeting with the supposed 'Angel of the Lord' Castiel, his doubt seeping through his tone, even as he displayed his only scar that his body now had, the raised, angry looking hand-print on his left shoulder. Birch had been impressed - and awed - by that same scar, his tangled eyebrows creeping towards his hairline as he stared at it, his eyes asking permission as he reached out to tentatively touch one of the 'finger-marks', that permission granted with a sharp nod of Dean's head. It was funny how he didn't even feel the calloused brush of fingers against the marred flesh, almost as if the nerves there had been fried. Twig was suitably dumb-struck, which tickled Dean to no end, even as the thought entered his head that now was time to go and let this man get back to his life, free of Dean and his supernatural stories and adventures.

Birch had gotten his answers about Alistair and then some. He had told his friend what he could remember about his time in Hell (which was still hazy at best) and the shameful sin he committed of giving in (though he couldn't remember why). He told him things he would never have been able to tell his brother in a million years - though whether it was because Birch was a new friend and didn't know him very well, or the fact that in such a very short time he seemed to know and understand him better than Sam ever could, Dean had no clue. But it eased some of the weight that had been dragging behind him ever since he had crawled out of his own grave - and while that by no means made everything better, or even fixed half of what was wrong with him (much less cured what ever weakness led to his downfall with Alistair's razor in his hands), it made breathing a little easier, just to know that someone else out there now knew his secrets, knew his family - without being attached or obligated in any way. He felt kind of bad dumping his family and his past on Twig's head, but hardly got time to voice it before he was waved off with a stern look, Birch thanking him for the story and for the adventure itself.

"It has been the time of my life young man, I can't say otherwise. So don't apologize for sharing such a fascinating tale - but it'll take me awhile to decide if it is all true or not." It was said with a smiling twinkle in his faded gray eyes, corner of his mouth curled in warm humor. "I think I've had more fun with you today, than I've had in years, Dean - so...so thank you. Thank you for being my friend and thank you for sharing your coffee, gas and time with an old man."

"Maybe we can do it again, sometime," Dean had offered, fully expecting a commiserating nod and a laugh from Twig, but was surprised when the old man pinned him with a look, laughing eyes suddenly very serious indeed.

"I'll hold you to that, Winchester - I'll hold you to it."

They rode the rest of the way to the bus depot in companionable silence, having already agreed earlier when they had stopped for gas (and had that odd little encounter with the clerk there) that Twig would drop him off at the Greyhound station, (destination everywhere) and Dean laughed to himself at the irony of another Winchester taking a bus to run away from home. He sobered quickly at the idea that Sam just might look for him at one of the stopping points (if he even figured out what Dean was doing and he wouldn't put it past Sam to work that out - and damned quick, too) so he figured he'd better find his way off of the bus early, just in case.

Still, even when they were in the parking lot, the tiny depot throwing shadows over the windshield of Birch's old Chevy, they were reluctant to part ways. They both just sat silently, soaking up the warmth of the autumn sun's rays as they slanted through the windows, neither wanting to say anything to break the quiet, but both knowing they couldn't sit there forever.

"Well," Twig coughed, figuring he'd better be the first to break the ice, (figuratively speaking). "You got everything there, Dean?"

"Yeah," Dean answered, voice as faded as old velvet as he looked at and through the dingy brick building in front of them. He didn't even bother to look through his duffle, secure in what he held in there - his only worry about its contents was getting it through security. "Missing a Mag-Lite, but I'll pick up another if I really need it."

"Sorry about that -"

"No need," Dean returned, smiling softly in Birch's direction. "We both got out in one piece - that's what counts."

"If you say so, young man."

They sat for another few minutes, the silence rushing back in to fill all the empty places in the old truck, the only sound being the tick of her engine as she cooled, the outside world as quiet as the Chevy's cab. They both geared up to speak and halted, realizing that once they said their goodbyes, it would be a good while (if ever) before they saw each other again.

"D'ya have enough money -"

"Yeah, Twig...got a credit card that outta cover everything I need."

"Okay."

After another beat, Twig cleared his throat, turning in his seat to face Dean, willing the young man to look back at him.

"Dean," he hesitated, half-pleased when Dean swiveled in his own seat, face sober and mildly sad before he was just Dean again, the rather odd, but nice guy that Birch had grown quite fond of in a very short period of time. "I hate to ask, but since you said you were headed nowhere in particular when we started this journey, I wonder if you could do me a favor - that is...if you are still headed nowhere in particular."

Dean grinned, gleeful sarcasm dancing at the corners of his mouth as he gave one long, slow blink in Birch's direction.

"You planned this, didn't ya', old man - c'mon, admit it!" He laughed as Birch sputtered a negative, knowing Dean was funnin' him, but still trying to lodge a token protest at the accusation.

"I did no such thing, Dean Winchester - you know what, forget it -"

"Aww, Twig, I'm just messing around," Dean chuckled. "C'mon, what is it? I'll do 'bout damn near anything you ask."

'_Except go back to my brother, tail tucked between my legs._'

His smile almost faltered at the thought, but he managed to keep it glued in place, curiosity urging him to lean in closer to Birch, like the old man had a secret to share. Birch raised an eyebrow at him, but grinned back, feeling that what he was doing was right, that Dean would understand and appreciate what was asked of him.

"Well...only if you're sure."

"Twiiiggg -"

"Alright, alright. I was going to run an errand in Corydon today, but I was thinking, maybe you could help an old man out and save him the trouble of messing about with the damned post office and all the fun I would have there. I was wondering, if maybe, you wouldn't mind delivering something for me - or in this case, not so much delivering, as picking something up."

Ohh, this was interesting.

"I'm all ears, Twig - just say the word and I'm there. What is it you need picked up?"

Birch gave a sunny laugh, that twinkle in his eye burning fierce and bright. "This m'boy - you are gonna _love_! How'd'ya feel about making a quick trip just outside Flagstaff, Arizona?"

Dean almost balked, the city of Flagstaff (and the surrounding area) one place that he always avoided - but this was for Birch, not him, and if the old man needed him to fetch something there, he'd be more than happy to go with it, bad memories or no.

"Sure, Birch, why not - better than just nowhere."

Birch grinned that half-crazy, sweet old man grin again and leaned in near Dean's space, voice dropping to a conspirator's whisper, even if it was only the two of them in an ancient, beat-to shit truck in the middle of a Greyhound parking lot. When he filled Dean in on what he was going to be picking up - and where he was to drop it off, Dean found himself laughing. It was almost too perfect. This whole day had been a blessing just dropped in his lap, his chance meeting with Birch seeming more and more to be the destiny he scoffed at then actual chance.

Birch laughed with him, his grin so wide, Dean was afraid his head would fall off.

"You'd be doing me a huge favor there, Dean - I'd owe ya big if you took care of all that for me. Saves me a trip to the post office, a money order for gas, shoot - all of that mess. Got the papers right here, too. They were all ready to be mailed, but..." Twig shrugged, smile still stretching his mouth and making him look years younger.

"I'd be more than happy to take those off your hands, Birch," Dean chuckled, having to rein in the urge to roll down the window and shout 'Oh thank _fuck_!' at the clear blue sky above them. "Only one question."

"What's that?"

"You've trusted me all throughout this crazy day - I still don't understand it, though I thank you it. But this? This is a little bigger than palling around with some punk-drifter heading to take out a poltergeist. This is...this is _way_ bigger - I have no idea why you'd trust me with this, but...well, there's no way to thank you properly for that trust."

"_You_ thank _me_?" Birch laughed again, patting the truck's dash in a fond, almost reflective gesture. "Dean - you'd be saving me one hell of a headache, here. As much as I love my eldest nephew, I don't trust his brat son as far as I can chuck him. I'd be honored if you'd take care of this for me. _Trust_? _Shit_ - I've known you for only nine, ten hours tops - and I trust you over that spoiled sonuvabitch in a heartbeat! Thank you for this - truly. It really makes this day - fantastic as it was, complete for me."

Dean leaned back in his seat, canted near the door as Birch twisted to pop open the glove-box, the flap falling open with a rusty creak as he hauled himself back upright, waving one gnarled hand in Dean's general direction.

"Go on, then. It's sitting right on top, everything you need to hit the road with."

Dean reached in and snagged the manila envelope sitting neatly atop the other scattering of paperwork in the glove-box, eyebrows jumping at the weight of the tiny package. "There isn't a money order in here, right? Cause I'd have to give it back and I know what a pain they can be to reverse."

"Nope - that's why I was headed to the main post office in Corydon. It's smaller than most main offices like that, but they have the ability to do money orders and they ship fast for lesser rates than the office near me." The old man shrugged, smile never wavering. "But the office I go to has a notary. Already got all that mess done, just needs a signature - go on, now..."

Dean quirked an eyebrow at him, hesitating only a moment before he opened the sealed envelope, pulling out the registration papers in one smooth pull, placing them on top of the stiff manila as he reached for the pen in his jacket.

"Are you sure, Twig - cause once I sign this -"

"I'm sure, son, now quit your lolly-gagging, a bus is waitin' for ya."

Dean signed on the dotted line with a flourish, clicking the pen closed and putting it away before stuffing the papers back into the envelope and closing the flap, turning it over carefully in his hands before bending to grab his duffle.

"Thanks Twig...for everything. This day started out so bad, I -" Dean swallowed hard, shaking his head as though to rid himself of what had happened less than fifteen hours ago. "Thanks..."

For what may have been the last time, he opened up the passenger door and hauled himself out, the solid ground beneath his feet almost startling as it always was after long stretches in a vehicle. He heard a creak as Birch got out on the other side, the old man approaching him in an easy lope, hand stuck out to give their final shake goodbye.

Dean blinked at him, green eyes intense, almost as if he was mapping Birch's face, taking every little detail and hard-wiring them into his memory. He dropped his duffle to take the offered hand, his shake firm, yet gentle - hoping that it conveyed everything he was feeling at that moment, as he didn't think words were adequate to express his gratitude, happiness and genuine kinship he felt Birch 'Twig' Collins.

"Aww, hell with it," Birch gritted, hauling him in for a one armed hug. "Good to meet you, Dean - it's been, well...it's been an adventure!"

Dean surprised himself by allowing Birch not only to tug him into the embrace, but returning it as fierce as he got it.

"I know how much you love those," he rasped, fighting the crazy urge to laugh and bawl like a girl all at once. "It's been great, Twig - thank you...thank you for _everything_. Do this again, sometime?"

Birch pulled away, slapping him on his uninjured shoulder before giving it a tight squeeze and shake, releasing his other hand from his warm, friendly grip as he stepped back, his own smile sad and yet happy all at the same time.

"I'm counting on it. Phone number's in there - address to if you are ever inclined to write me." The hint was mild, but Dean took it for what it was and felt warmed all over again.

"I guess I'll have to call and send Christmas cards then," he said somberly, bending to grab his duffle off the broken concrete. "Though I don't know where I'll end up at - and they might not be in a name you recognize."

"Wellah," Birch coughed. "To let you know - where you'll be dropping that machine off at, my other nephew, Thomas - he's always got work. Maybe you'll find a place there?"

Dean mulled it over, liking the idea the more he thought on it. Sam would never look for him in such a remote place - and if there was someone there willing to give him a hand, help him make his way - he just might allow himself to take that hand up, much as it went against his nature. He was turning over a new leaf after all.

"I just might, Twig - thanks."

"Guess I'll give Thomas a call...let him know to expect you."

"What will you tell him."

"Ohhh, that I got a close friend delivering the package instead. Thomas is a good man - he'll see to it that you find a home there. Your own little niche if you will."

"Guess I look forward to that then..." Dean replied softly, the words 'fate' and 'not a coincidence' floating through his thoughts once more. "Guess I do. Well - til we meet again, Collins."

"And we will, Winchester - you can count on it," Birch answered, giving his shoulder one final squeeze before ambling back to the driver's side of his truck.

Dean watched him hop into the Chevy and start her up, giving one final wave and honk as Birch pulled away. He kept watching until Birch's taillights disappeared around the next corner, a pressure under his ribs aching him in a funny way, but not necessarily a bad way as he whispered goodbye to his new friend and ally.

Dean glanced at the Greyhound station and then at his duffle, doubt twisting his mouth into a frown as he contemplated how he'd get around security. He hefted the envelope and considered it as well, before dismissing the bluff that formed in his mind, knowing that he'd never get away with it, even at his bullshit best. Transportation venues were too paranoid nowadays. Not that this was a _bad_ thing, just inconvenient if you wanted to get around quickly, guns on your person.

So...the Winchester way it was then.

He gave one last glance around, making sure he wasn't being watched as he made his way out of the station's parking lot and two blocks over to where someone had carelessly left their keys in their brand new Cadillac. Bad for them...but good for him as he pulled smoothly away like he owned the vehicle, duffle tossed in the passenger foot-well, envelope with the registration papers tucked into the opening at the top of the green canvas carryall.

Sometimes the Winchester way really _was_ the best way - and days like this, _luck_ like this - only proved that point.


	10. Chapter 10

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Five**

**Part Two**

**'Breaking the Habit** '

_**Clutching my cure, I tightly lock the door, I try to catch my breath again - I hurt much more, than any time before, I had no options left again - **_**Linkin' Park**

_There was only one demon, just one, that got on Dean's nerves the most while he did his tour of duty Hell-side - _

_And that demon wasn't even Alistair._

_This numb fuck went out of his way to make Dean look like shit whenever he could. He was always hanging around, fucking with the 'corporate machine' that was Hell's torture business. His slimy, smarmy, boot licking ways would have fit into any Wall Street cubicle hamster run, but they seemed to literally_ shine _in the land where no sun fell - and quite frankly, Dean had been sick of his face five seconds after he was first shown it._

_You'd think Hell would have been a little more chaotic, a little less profit-by-squeezing-the-worker - but since Satan's realm was comprised of nothing_ but _'workers' and the 'worked-over' the corporate image just kinda got stuck in Dean's skull - and after seven years on the other side of the Rack, he had learned just how much he would have come to hate Corporate and all it represented, if he had ever been unlucky enough to encounter it while breathing real oxygen Earth-side._

_Dean didn't 'do' office politics - and as much as Alistair loved his little quirks and sarcastic asides, this one was one flaw even the High Inquisitor couldn't overlook. Their relationship (well, after Dean had come to stand on his own two feet again, Al's favorite razor his jewelry of choice) had become a give and take - and it was no secret that Dean had become the 'office Golden Boy'. His sheer talent with instruments of torture, the scope of his imagination and his ability to look good while armpit deep in gore placing him high in the ranks of Hell's Chosen Ones - but that left him in a rather tottery position on top of a very high pedestal, indeed. The higher he went (and all without even a hint of taint against his soul) the harder he knew he could fall. He knew he had millions of eyes on him - and while before, those millions were looking to get their own little slice, now they were watching for him to fuck up and wind up Rack Meat once more - no longer a butcher, but the lamb before the slaughter._

_And Sylvesulieus was looking to find him there fast - and under his own razor (like Dean could ever dignify his clumsy hack and slash efforts with his own unsoiled soul) which he wielded like a third rate box-cutter left in the hands of a rather ugly kindergartner. There was only one reason why the former Dean Winchester didn't squash this little piss-ant like the stink-bug he was - _

_He was Alistair's second favorite and one step below Dean himself._

_Dean tried for the longest time to figure out how, figure out_ why _this little weasel in demon's clothing even considered himself fit to lick his_ own _damned boots, much less Alistair's, but after awhile, he caught onto Slyves' shtick: Politics...sheer, lowly, dumb-assed politics. Dean's talent kept him on top - Sylvesulieus' ass-kissing had him trailing not far behind and Dean found he was hard pressed to keep his place (and his hide) intact because of the little fucker._

_But Dean himself was a wily little son of a bitch - and though he may not understand, approve of or involve himself in Hell's corporate shell-game of ass-kissing and backstabbing, he had more than a few aces up his own sleeve to keep him ahead of Sly's games - like a whole fucking_ deck _comprised of nothing more than fast-on-his-feet thinking, ability to land on said feet, dirty tactics (better suited to bar-brawling, but they worked) and sheer fuckery for the sake of it (if nothing else) going for him. He would have made any CEO proud, but the only one he was interested in keeping on his good side was Alistair - and that asshole seemed to find the whole thing amusing, even if he never soiled his own rep with the 'office' version of dirty-pool himself._

_'_It's boring, pointless, feckless and unworthy,_' he'd often state in a bored, sleepy kind of way. But that didn't stop him from encouraging it behind-the-scenes - or from taking great glee in the chum-infested waters of The Aftermath whenever it blew up in someone's face. He'd just order the poor sucker back to either Dean's (preferred) or Sylvesulieus' (you're really in trouble) Racks and the soul would have to climb the ranks all over again, lesson learned or not._

_This particular day, Syl really had nothing better to do than hang around and annoy Dean - a steady pass-time with him (when Alistair wasn't around) and one that pissed Winchester off to no end. What the fuck was this asshole_ looking _for anyway?_

_"Go fuck off and play in traffic, Syl," Dean sighed when the little weasel slinked around the edge of his cell-door. "What are you doing here anyway? Looking for tips? See - now this is how you hold a razor...you pull it just-so across a soul's flesh to get to their chewy insides -"_

_"Shut it, Winchester - just came to hang out..and maybe give you a heads up, but if you are gonna behave_ that _way -"_

_"Whatever Syl - like any intel coming from your mouth didn't drop straight out of Lucifer's friggin' asshole -"_

_"You need to watch that kinda talk, Dean - could get you in real trouble." It was said with an awed glee, eyes shifting like a rat smelling cheese, smile so transparent you could heave a brick through it._

_"Yeah, yeah - save it for the Bleeding Hearts Hotline. Either say what you came to say or go suck saltwater."_

_"Fine." The demon sneered, features arranged in what Dean could only think of as a sulk. "Something's coming for you."_

_"Yeah, that's funny - peddle your line to someone who cares, Sylvia -"_

_"Man,_ stop _that - I_ hate _it when you call me that!"_

_"Hey, if the collar fits, sweetheart -"_

_"Whatever Winchester - you wanna hear or not?"_

_Dean rolled his eyes, but nodded, knowing he was going to regret it, but willing to play along anyway - might cut the monotony some. Even Syl had his uses - entertainment being the main one._

_"Yeah, yeah - go ahead. Tell me a bedtime story, Syl - it's gettin' late."_

_Still sulking, Syl uncurled from the wall where he had been slouching and slimed his ugly-assed way to Dean's side, voice dropped in a conspirator's whisper. "Yeah, well anyway - I heard something's coming for you. Hell sent out alarms all over the place -"_

_"How come we ain't hearin' 'em?"_

_"They just breached the First Gate -"_

_"That's all? We're past the Seventh, Syl." Patiently, like he was talking to an addle-brained child (which by Dean's estimation, he was). "It'll take 'em a million years - that is if they even manage to get past the Third one."_

_"Yeah," Syl scoffed. "Says the guy who passed through all Eleven before landing his ass back here."_

_Dean turned, eyes glinting with mockery and malice, every muscle tensed and vibrating. Even Syl could see what Alistair freaked out about with Dean when he got like this - he was sheer beauty and rage in arrested motion, each movement silky enough to make a cat envious._

_"Yeah, Sylvia and just how many did you pass through - and survive with your mind intact?" A molten purr, laced with threat and fury, even as the tone was as smooth and laid-back as a man asking for iced tea on a hot summer day. Syl gulped and edged back to the wall, willing to even let the hated taunt go as he sped through the rest of what he had come to say - Dean's ire worth the look that he would see on his face. _

_How much trouble Dean would get himself into within the next minute and a half would be worth the rest._

_"Either way Winchester - something is coming for you. Something big enough to ring Hell's bells -"_

_"Good song, AC/DC - released as a B-Side on What You Do For Money in 1980, tribute to Bon Scott," Dean mused._

_"What?" Sylvesulieus was completely thrown, his expression one of incredulous disgust. "What_ are _you on about?"_

_"Nothing," Dean sighed. "No culture in this motherfucker - you were saying?"_

_"Well," the demon simpered, not really understanding what Winchester was rattling on about, but too eager to spread vileness to be deterred. "_Something _made it past the First Gate - a_ Big _Something." You could even hear the capitals - Dean was impressed. "And rumor has it that this Something is gunning for one Dean Winchester - Alistair's pride and joy."_

_The last was spat out, as though Syl had a nasty taste in his mouth. Dean figured it probably did taste like shit, having your own incompetence rubbed in your face and your Employee of the Millenia title snatched out from under you (and so easily, too) within the New Boy's first three months out of the chains._

_"Yeah? How come Alistair himself hasn't said anything?"_

_"You know how busy he is -"_

_"Always makes time for me," Dean said casually, a light backhand as though it wasn't really worth Dean's time to utter it. Sylvesulieus went an odd purple color, trembling with incoherent rage at Dean's offhand remark, before reining himself back in. Dean's nasty mouth was going to make this so much more worth seeing that stupid smile wiped off of his face - Syl would pay in blood, he was sure - but it would be so fucking_ worth _it._

_"Well, we aren't all as..._lucky_...as_ you_," Syl sneered, implication laced heavily through his tone. He hurried on before Dean could really react, wanting to get it all out before Winchester found an excuse to boot him back through the door, ass first._

_"Rumors are already filtering down about what this something may be though -"_

_"Really?" Dean yawned, making a point to polish a spotless bone-saw. "And who - or what - might that be? Ruby? Lilith? Gimme a break -"_

_"Rumor has it that the Something is Sam Winchester himself -"_

_Syl never saw it coming. He expected it, thought he had_ _anticipated_ _for it - but he never saw even a_ flicker _of movement before Dean had him hoisted in the air, left hand sunk in the soft space just below his jaw, the grip crushing yet surprisingly easy, as though Dean had been practicing this very move for over a millennia._

_"You'd better_ pray _that's just a rumor, Sylvia, honey," Dean purred at him through lethal teeth, his smile more of a promise of mind-bending agony than a smile. "You'd better pray this is just more of your horseshit, else I'll splatter your guts from here to Topside for the sheer fucking _joy _of it, I promise you that."_

_"You..._you_..." Syl croaked, clawing at Dean's wrist. Dean licked his lips, then pursed them as though he was listening intently, eyes hooded masks of hate as he eased his hold enough to let Syl speak. "You...cannn't..._do _this -_ Alistair _-"_

_"Will have me dancing on his needle-noses before I can say 'boy-howdy', I'm sure," Dean hissed pleasantly, eyes wide and incandescent with rage, though his mouth still smiled the smile of the contented and criminally insane. "But I'd still have time, Syl, darlin' - how much time do you think I'd need to have you horking up your own toe-nails? Ten seconds?_ Five_? You a bettin' slime-monger, you fucking shit-for-brains? I'll have you screaming my name like a fucking whore on payday - unless I slice your tongue out of your gullet first!"_

_"Just...the rumors...I...heard...Dean-o," Sylvesulieus choked, feet kicking wildly at a level of pain he hadn't felt in_ years _- and all from a simple choke-hold. "Th-thought...thought you-might...wanna...know."_

_"Fucking_ liar_," Dean seethed. "Fucking lying sack of_ shit _- you'd better just be fucking with me,_ _Sylvesulieus. You say you are and I just might let you get out of here with a good old-fashioned ass-kicking, but if you fuck with me further...if you don't retract that last little statement of yours I'm gonna retract your balls through your fucking flapping asshole myself - you get me?"_

_He punctuated the last sentence with rattling shakes for every word, Syl damned sure his eyes were gonna pop out of his skull before Dean could_ really _get down to business. But it was so fucking worth it - it was worth the soul-shredding torment Dean was gonna put him through._

_Just the_ look _on his face was worth it all._

_"'Fraaaa-aaid...n-not, Winchh-chhh...aaffff...after-all...you...went...thhhrrthrrrrrrrr - to keep...S-ssammy...your...precious...lit-brother...oooout-out of Hell's...cl-cl-clutches - he...he's-gonna..." Syl cackled out a breathless laugh as Dean's face flickered from rage to want to horror back to rage then hopeless panic in a matter of nanoseconds, his fingers faltering on the demon's throat just long enough for him to draw enough breath to spit his venom all over Dean's cell._

_"F-fffuckin'...s-ssuck-on..._that_...y-yyyyou...pathetic..._fuck_!"_

_Dean eased his grip on Syl's windpipe, manner calm, each movement graceful and light - his smile one of utter destruction._

_"You first, baby," he whispered, manic joy singing through his voice as he spun smoothly on one heel and slammed Syl onto his Rack, the machine gripping the demon's essence like the arms of a masochistic lover. "Close your eyes, sweetheart - got a present for you, you fucking _piss-ant, boot_-licking,_ incompetent, _little __**shit-smear**__ -!"_

_The rest of what Dean had to say, his tones sweet and light with laughter, his voice almost melodious with his promise of retribution, was lost in wave after wave of sheer agony as he wielded his beloved tools of shining horror on Syl's soul - _

_And he was right. _

_There was an amazing amount of torment he could accomplish in very little time. Sylvesulieus would have been impressed (and honored) to have such war waged against his flesh and bone, if he wasn't too busy proving Dean right in yet another way as he screamed his name until his vocal cords came apart (or maybe Dean removed them, he wasn't very sure) so horribly bright and writhing was the pain that Winchester visited on him, his smile the smile of true serenity as he worked. _

_He begged Dean for mercy until he was no longer allowed to beg, his torment bleeding through the halls of Hell until even the High Ranks shivered to hear it - so in a surprisingly short amount of time, Alistair arrived to see what was transpiring to cause such a ruckus - and he was both furious and sorrowful at the sight of his top apprentice taking out his second-top like it was any other ordinary day. There were rules to be followed and Dean had just broken three of them in under five seconds. He waved at the contingent that had followed him in, motioning them back as he went in to stop Dean himself, literally trembling with disappointment and rage, something (he reflected) that only Dean could make him feel simultaneously and with such fervor. _

_All it took was one hand on Dean's shoulder and he shuddered to a halt like a broken machine before twisting around to face his Master, razor still hoisted in counterpoint as he met Alistair's judgement. His chest and arms gleamed wetly with Sylvesulieus' blood, mouth coated in gore as if he had become so enraged he had eaten bits of his victim - and maybe he had. His eyes still burned with righteous, living fury, even as he carefully wiped down his razor, placing it back on his table, Alistair's fingers hovering just above his right bicep. Once he put his weapon back amongst the others (the bloody prints on its handle jarring garishly against the pristine gleam of the rest of his tools) he seemed to come back to himself, dropping down on one knee before his Master, awaiting his punishment._

_"Dean.." Alistair breathed, the taint of sadness only heard between the two of them as he leaned over his Charge. The wet sucking gurgles behind Dean on his Rack, what was left (for now) of Syl's soul, went unheeded as he stroked a clawed hand through the besmeared carnage in Dean's hair, his focus lasered upon that bent head in a twisted version of sorrow. For once in his very, very long unlife, Alistair found he had no taste for what he was about to do. Even as he had longed to have Dean under his blade again, he had never wanted it to come about like this. He was still unsure what had happened to cause Dean to inflict his talents on a fellow torturer, but he was sure he would get the answer soon, whether Dean wished to tell him or not. _

_He wasn't the High Inquisitor for nothing._

_But he also wasn't stupid._

_"Get that filth off of his Rack," he commanded the guards behind him. "I'll deal with him later. For now..."_

_He sighed, arresting his soothing motions through Dean's hair, withdrawing his fingers with reluctance and..and_ pity _of all things._

_"Dean...Dean, Dean, Dean." Another sigh. "Stand up."_

_Dean's mute obedience made what passed for Alistair's heart wrench and he had to swallow back the rage this foreign feeling brought him._

_Only Dean Winchester._

_"Take him to my Rack,"Alistair said numbly, gesturing at Dean with a mild wave of his hand. "Seems the Rules need to be gone over one more time... But we'll get it right this time, Boy - won't we?"_

_But Dean said nothing, his rage burnt away leaving only silence to fill the void._

_Though Alistair saw to it that that didn't last very long, either._

**0-0-0**

**7:41PM**

It was a quiet drive so far. No radio, no passenger to talk at him at eighty miles an hour - just him and the road, the light fading fast as the day edged towards night, bright pinks and serene purple-blues tinting the horizon as he drove, tires singing a hushed sigh along the length of blacktop.

He had no idea why he was dwelling on Slyvesulieus, why the memories from his time in Hell had gone from a slow creep to an avalanche of remembrance, his mind flooded with thoughts, experiences and years he had half hoped he would never have to recall. Images, sounds, smells and a host of other sensations washed through him with every blink, every breath he took, every turn of his head. His nightmares were all _memories._ His mind had caught and recorded everything that had happened during his stint Downstairs, he had just...lost it all.

Until now.

Now the floodgates had been opened and everything - absolutely _everything_ - was pouring through, some of it coming so fast it was almost impossible to process it at all. The door had been opened and every second, of every minute, of every hour, of every day of that time wanted to be acknowledged, to be recognized for the horror it was - the horror that Dean Winchester had become.

So he let them batter at him, opened himself to every terror he had endured - every terror he had _committed_ over those long forty years. It stunned him that he had spent more time in Hell than he had been 'Topside', his lifetime before the Hellhounds had come for his soul and ten plus and those last ten years, well - they were a doozy, to coin a quaint phrase. He had become worse than the demon that had shaped him, he had committed evil acts, tormented those lesser than him - and he had known better the whole time. That's what made him worse than Alistair, worse than _Syl_, even - he knew what he was doing was wrong and he did it anyway, finding an odd joy in the pain he inflicted as he machined his way through thousands of souls - shit, so many even he had lost count (so a horrifying number it must have been). His infamous steel trap of a mind had been triggered and it was all he could do to ride it out, keep his stolen car to the road and do his best not to scream, cry or shake apart under the dusky sky as evening fell, the silence surrounding him a punishment even as it soothed him, creating a special void for him to fall into when it became too much.

Which it did every time he blinked, exhaled or swallowed.

He tried to breathe through it, around it, ignoring the sensation that the sky itself was pressing down on him as he fought for control, skin aching to every brush of cloth as he shifted in his seat, lips numb from holding in the endless urge to scream until he had no voice left to scream _with_. The memories, the nightmares during his little catnaps had been bad - but they had gotten worse since he had left Sam behind less than 16 hours ago. It seemed his brother had been his good luck talisman, a charm working to keep the horror at bay - and with Sam now hours behind him...

He would have to endure it. He had created what he had become. He could have spent that extra ten years saying no, refusing to give in to Alistair's endlessly patient goads to get him to turn. Instead, he had become a monster, no better than the filthy things they hunted, certainly worse in some cases - all because he knew the difference. Some of the creatures they destroyed for the good of everyone were just following their instincts, doing what was natural for them. What he had done had not only gone against his nature (or so he thought once upon a time) but it had gone against Winchester creed, gone against familial bonds and trust. He not only betrayed the human race, but he had betrayed his family and everything they stood for - things just couldn't _get _any worse than that.

It scared him that the only reason he wanted to turn the car around, besides the urge to see Sam, was the urge to _see_ Sam, to beg his forgiveness, to accept his wrath, his hate, his retribution for being such a fucking lowlife. But he wanted to see if he could make up for it too, see if he could return some faith in himself by giving back to those he had given up on - and now that plan was merrily shot to shit by the memories of those very same things that had disgraced him to his family. Even if they had no knowledge of that little factoid. He had lost face - and even if he was the only one who knew that, the sheer depths of his failure and betrayal boiled and seethed within his soul, leaving him breathless with the weight of all that he had done.

And God supposedly wanted to save him? Save Dean Winchester? All could think on that was '_Whatever the fuck_ for?' There was just no reason for it, there was no sense to be had by the idea. There were others souls that deserved saving far more than his - he had given in, he had given himself over to evil and there was no coming back from that. Even his stupid fantasy about fixing it through doing what he did best was just that, stupid and a fantasy - though it had been the only way he could keep sane and live through this nightmare he had landed himself in. Now even that was gone. He had no idea how he'd find his way, or if he even _could_ - but he would burn that bridge when he came to it. For now, he would just let the nightmares and memories ride themselves out and try to find his way around it. He had one more job to do, one more charge laid on him by a man he called a friend - and after that...well...he'd see what he would see.

Slyvesulieus kept bugging him though.

The memories that had been a mere trickle of horror had turned into a full flood only after he'd had his PTSD moment in Tomkin's attic - but even that was a mere _wave_ compared to what he had experienced since leaving that convenience store just outside of Corydon. All he could think of was Syl and he supposed that horrible clerk behind the counter had a lot to do with that. It wasn't just the fact that he kind of _looked_ like Sylvesulieus - he sounded like him, even kind of walked like him. If Dean had ever encountered a doppelganger before - that clerk was a perfect copy of Syl, right down to his smarmy, slimy smile and simpering speech.

It certainly didn't help that the first thing the clerk focused on was his brother (not that the guy knew) - all it did was cement Syl and his weaselly ways into the forefront of Dean's thoughts.

It wasn't just what he said - but how he'd said it. It is one thing to talk about a guy pulling up in a black classic muscle-car, but to turn around after and put down the 'old guy and his pink jalopy' within the next breath just set Dean's teeth on edge. And he kept shooting Dean looks like they were in some weird, silent agreement on Birch and his ancient truck - and that just took the need to retaliate beyond the whole 'hit him with a zinger about his looks' to 'throttle the ever-loving life out of him'.

And he could see it, too - exactly how he would do it. He could just see his arm snaking over the counter, lightning-fast and grabbing that nasty little dweeb by his throat, crushing it while he slammed the back of his head into his own cash register - repeatedly. Until blood sprayed. And as awful as that little punk was, he didn't deserve that kind of treatment - no one did. It was all Dean could do to pay for the gas and coffee (get a little sly bit of satisfaction when the clerk realized he was _with_ the old guy and his jalopy) and beat feet out of there - before he actually gave into that terrible urge to swipe that smirk off of the kid's face with his fist, all due to the misfortune of looking/acting/behaving like Dean's top enemy in Hell.

That was enough to give him a reality check. It was like cold water being dumped on him out of the clear blue - and the tumble of memories hadn't been far behind. Being with Twig kept the worst of them at bay - but out here alone under the stretch of unforgiving sky there was nothing to keep them from bombarding him, each insight, each snatch of thought, each misdeed laid bare within his own mind, his capacity for evil a shock and a fresh depression all at once. He had let a monster take over - he had let Alistair hold sway over his every action, had _begged_ for it. As much as he would love to whine about his own fate, how he didn't mean to do it, how he was sorry - he knew that there was no forgiveness, no matter what a creature like Castiel thought. No matter what his _brother_ would say.

But then, when it came to Sam right now, he wasn't sure he could trust him, either. He couldn't trust himself, he couldn't trust his brother - what was left?

'_Need to pull over soon..._'

That thought tore through the hellish scenes in his mind like glass through paper, giving him much needed focus away from his tour of duty Downstairs and he was almost grateful for the sudden halt to his mental torment - even if stopping to sleep only meant more horrors unfolding in bold technicolor behind closed eyelids.

He was exhausted, bone-fucking-tired, really - something he had realized when he went to swap his stolen Caddy three towns away from the office building he had boosted it from, knowing that the lo-jack in all modern vehicles would get it back to its owner (but would also get him caught red-handed if he had held onto it much longer). The ghost of Sam had been breathing down his neck the whole time he searched out another ride, his fingers shaking as he jimmied the lock on his first pick (a beat-up '91 Honda Civic) taking some comfort from the idea that the owner would probably be more than happy to see it gone - and that his brother would never look for him to boost such a miserable excuse for a car.

This one had no GPS or tracking computer in it at least, so he could take it a little further than the Caddy - just as long as he remembered to stop and switch out the plates a few times before dumping it for his next piece of crap. He was quite sure this was _not_ how Birch intended him to get to Arizona - but what ol' Twig didn't know wouldn't hurt him. Dean just didn't feel like trying to lie his way through security check-points just to park his ass on a seat thousands of asses had seen already, going fuck knows where. The thought _alone_ depressed him - and he was too damned tired to throw on his game face and try to bluff a bunch of yahoos in rent-a-cop outfits and suffer through a long ride with someone else at the helm, his life under the control of their wheels.

This was easier - though it left him shaking from adrenaline every time he saw a cop or trooper, the weight of all of his sins pressing on him, making his thievery that much more damnable, the salty taste of paranoia sitting heavily across his tongue as each mile spun away under the balding tires of the Civic. He knew he needed to stop, he knew he needed to _rest_ - but the fear of screaming himself awake in some anonymous hotel room with no one there (Sammy, Bobby, Dad) to anchor him, with no one there to ground him in the now - far outweighed the fear of wrapping the crumbling wreck of a car around a tree. So for now, no matter what he told himself, he would drive, let the road comfort him the way nothing else could. Even if all he was doing was running from things he could never leave behind, it gave him some measure of solace that he was just one small creature under the vast spin of the universe, wheels churning the endless pavement to everywhere at once, his need to escape greater than his need to forget.

Though a nice slug of whiskey wouldn't hurt either.

He blinked the road back into focus, knowing that stopping was inevitable, but hanging on with that famous Winchester stubbornness all the same.

'_Just a few more miles, Dean - then we'll stop,_' he told himself grimly. '_Just a few more_.'

**0-0-0**

_The speedometer clicked the miles away, the muscle car practically hugging the curves as he pushed her ever faster, hyper-aware of Sam's erratic breathing from the backseat. They needed help, they needed shelter - and Dean knew exactly where he could get it. He hated depending on Bobby so much, hated that they needed shelter now and again and that Bobby was so willing to provide it. The brothers Winchester already owed him so much, but they could never seem to stop racking up the debt, could never seem to leave their friend in peace, one crisis or another always cropping up to drive them to what had become quietly known as home, the word never breathed aloud, but always felt. _

_They had spent more time at Singer's Auto Salvage than Dean cared to admit, the hulks of dying (and dead) smashed and rusted automobiles their playground as Dad and Bobby discussed things that 'weren't for little pitchers and their big ears'. The two small boys playing hide and seek or just running up and down the aisles between the junkers, the smell of old diesel, oxidized metal and motor oil a big part of the canvas of their childhoods. The sense memories of those times included the layout of Bobby's house, stacks of books piled haphazardly all over to be used as fort builders and to while away long hours studying Latin and other languages for exorcism when it was too rainy or snowy out to play in the salvage yard. The feel of Bobby's scratchy old woolen comforter in his spare room, Sam pulled close as they snoozed on the only bed that graced that room for the longest time (until teenage bodies and teenage grumblings got another bed to miraculously appear two months after the fact), the smells of chili and fresh coffee permeating the old walls along with the smells of ancient, worm-eaten tomes and cheap whiskey. _

_They spent as much time at Bobby's as they did at Pastor Jim's, maybe even more so - until Sam left for college and a hunt gone wrong that left Dean unconscious for two days led to the fight that had Dad being run off with Bobby's trusty shotgun, something that filled Dean with warmth and shame when he recalled the scene, proud and awed that Bobby would take his well-being so seriously, even as it made him feel torn in two that the two men he admired most were no longer friends. _

_He missed Bobby fiercely during those four years away, understanding that he would be standing on the enemy's side of the line if he ever so much as called there while Dad and Bobby were feuding. Desperation to save Dad drove him back though and it was as if he had never left, Bobby's house as open and welcoming as it had ever been, the grizzled hunter once again a friend - even family - to the ragtag Winchesters and their nomadic ways. _

_He gave them room and shelter when Dad died, only appearing when needed, his silence and quiet strength one of the few reasons Dean didn't go off the deep end during those dark times. He always had the answers, or at least the willingness to find some when they were lost in the woods with no path out. He was their medic if needed, their home when they had none and their friend when everyone else had shown them their backs. _

_Dean had no way to repay him for his many kind gestures and understanding hospitality - and it left him paranoid and anxious sometimes when Bobby seemed to expect nothing in return, too used to a world that demanded repayment for the smallest token rendered. Bobby seemed to understand that too - and would allow them to 'return the favor' by having Sam help him research and have Dean fix up any cars that could be sold at auctions or right off the lot. Both boys helped with various chores around the house, stopping sometimes before they pulled into the junkyard to get much needed supplies for maintenance and repairs that were essential around the place, Bobby never saying a word about their purchases - just leaving new parts for the Impala where Dean could find them, food for their bellies when they were hungry (he always seemed to have 'extra' just laying around) and a warm ear to be bent when there was no where else to turn to._

_It wouldn't be the first time they had flown to his house, one of them injured and the other exhausted and frightened, running on nothing but coffee and adrenaline. Dean was damned sure it wouldn't be the last either - but it made his heart sink sometimes at just how much they had come to depend on the man, on his (could he even dare think it) love for them, unspoken but always there. It only made him fear the day that neither would be there, due to either death or circumstance. He tried to never think that a day like that would come, but with this life, with the luck the Winchester boys held, it might come sooner rather than later. Dean found he dreaded the thought of Bobby dying because of them (too much blood on his hands already to add that of family -_ again_), or the day that Bobby ran him off with a shotgun, the risk of associating with them too much for the old man and his hospitality at long last._

_So for the last several weeks he had been trying to pull them away from Bobby's influence, to stop from_ leaning _on him so much - though this only resulted in confused and barking phone calls at the oddest of times, Singer wanting to know if he 'smelled like dog-shit or somethin' the last time they had met up. Their excuses were just about running out and then they had the misfortune to run headlong into a tangle with a pissed off 'giest, who's cruelty and never-ending supply of furniture and rage had them scrambling for cover before they could attempt to banish it._

_Their encounter with the spirit wound up leaving Dean with a sprained wrist, a nasty concussion and dislocated shoulder while Sam also sported a fantastic concussion, and several bruises - not to mention the deep gash along his left side that had steadily pumped blood for several minutes before Dean could properly stitch it, his fever already climbing up to 101 even with all of his brother's skill and training at their disposal. After a good hour of being at the poltergeist's mercy, they finally killed it - but neither would entertain the thought of trying to fix themselves_ by _themselves - so that left Dean two miles outside of Sioux Falls in under five hours, fretting that they were falling back into a pattern that he couldn't seem to break._

_Bobby was waiting for them when they pulled up, concern etched on his features as he helped haul Sam from the backseat, taking most of his baby brother's weight onto his own shoulders with a grunt, having already noted the way Dean's arm hung loose and bulging in its socket. Dean lasered a silent glance at him, emotions mixed, mouth set in a grim line as he hovered close. His body was tensed to take Sam's weight if Bobby faltered, words of thanks and apology stuck in his gullet._

_They staggered into the dim quiet of Bobby's den, the comfort of his home wrapping around Dean like a blanket, smothering his anxiety and pain with the smells, sounds and familiar clutter of Singer's house. His very_ insides _breathed a sigh of relief as they wove their way like expert dancers around the various detritus in their paths, before Bobby finally, finally eased Sam's bulk onto his couch, turning immediately to assess the elder brother, eyes soft and hard all at once._

_"Bobby," Dean began, anger at himself trying to climb to the surface as he took in the piles of paperwork stacked on the desk, ever aware that they had intruded on the older hunter's life once again. "Bobby, I - I'm sorry, we...we -"_

_The older hunter pulled him into a tight embrace, mindful of his wrist and shoulder, his grip firm and warm, demanding that Dean accept it. And Dean found himself relaxing into the hug, even raising his good arm to clutch at the back of Bobby's over-shirt, using the old man's strength as an anchor. Bobby pulled away first, eagle eyes still scanning for hidden injuries that Dean would obviously not tell him about, a tremulous smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. Dean went to muster up the effort to speak again, to apologize for intruding, to apologize for being a burden, but went quiet at Singer's gentle shake of the head, the older hunter's eyes shining relief and chiding all at once._

_"Glad you came, Dean," he said softly, dropping his eyes to give Dean time to compose himself. _

_"Welcome home..."_

**0-0-0**

**8:35PM**

The journal was thrown haphazardly on what was suppose to be Dean's bed, some of the contents spilling out in a messy sprawl across the neatly made coverlet, Sam too tired and too pissed to really care about stuffing the papers and clippings back in and closing it properly (as Dean would have.) Bobby sat in possession of the room's only chair, shifting uncomfortably now and again as he read through the note, pausing every time he came to the end and reading again as though he might have missed something the first time - though it was short enough there was fat chance of that. Sam let it go though, let Bobby waste his time rereading Dean's cryptic scrawl because he had been doing just that not but twenty minutes ago himself, ass going numb in that very same chair as he skimmed the note again and again - like the short paragraph and a half had a hidden message sandwiched between the sentences.

But that had just been the first twenty minutes he had been back in the room. He had spent ten minutes alone squinting at the crumpled piece of notebook paper (imagining Dean smoothing it hastily as he jotted his thoughts down, stopping to chew his pen every few words) in the dying light of the day, leaned against the inside of the Impala's driver door, fingers of his left hand digging into the flesh of his forehead as he read it over and over again, like those same fingers could open his head up and help him comprehend what he was looking at - though he knew exactly what it was.

Dean was saying goodbye, all without actually saying a word. It was so typical _Dean_ that Sam wanted to laugh, would have if his throat wasn't already full with bits of his heart wanting to bleed out as tears and screaming.

He rolled the silver ring (the extra '_zip_' to the whole ensemble of the journal/note you could say) between two fingers, the metal warm, yet cool to the touch, as though it missed the feel of surrounding Dean's finger, the inside of it worn from years of doing just that.

He guessed he should just be grateful Dean didn't send along the amulet, too. That would have been too much right there, the note and ring were bad enough. And now Bobby knew it all, knew how things had slid from semi-okay to not-fucking-right in just a few hours time. At least Sam _hoped_ he knew it all by now, his own head was spinning far too much to comprehend exactly what had happened and he was kind of depending on Bobby to help him sort it out - kind of like a stand in Dean, as Dean was not there to tell him what the fuck had just happened and what the fuck it all meant.

Bobby opened his mouth once to speak five minutes ago, then closed it again, whipping his hat off of his head to scratch at a phantom itch before resettling it with a twitch of his fingers, confusion etched deep under his eyes as he went back to reading the scrap paper for the five thousandth time. Sam just sat on his bed, leaned forward on his knees, mind blank again - the euphoria from his drive to Illinois having long evaporated, hope following on its heels when he first encountered the journal on the floor of the Tomkin's house.

For the first time in a very long time, the ability to think had left him, all that he had to keep him from screaming and throwing things was the ring in one hand, his cell in the other and a nice numbing fog that had settled over his body and mind. Not feeling and not thinking actually felt pretty good, it felt _right_ - especially as his stupid brain had come up with fuck-all for the past hour on how to find Dean or fix the mess he had created.

"So...this was it? This was all you found?" Bobby's voice was hesitant, his manner as bewildered and shocked, his tone coming out shakier than he intended Sam was sure.

"Yeah," was the tired reply. "Yeah, that's it, Bobby. The journal in the middle of the floor, note inside, wrapped around Dean's ring. I searched the house, but...that was the only thing out of place - the only object that really stood out as not-not _belonging_." He gestured with the hand that held the ring, the small metal object looking wrong gripped in the pads of two fingers.

Sam dropped his phone on the bed beside him, running a shaking hand through his hair, noting distantly that his stomach still ached, the feeling that of a clenched fist in his gut. His mind wandered to the Chinese eatery a block and a half away, with the sign promising hot, fresh egg rolls before he quashed the notion. Movement would be required and he was too tired to budge from where he sat. Then there was also that vicious need to punish himself for letting Dean slip through his fingers over seventeen hours before. If he had just _stopped_ him - or better yet, had Ruby drop him off at the hotel...

Hindsight was always twenty-twenty (so the saying went) - though Sam figured he would like to find the guy that came up with that cheery-sounding, stupid, thoroughly correct phrase and jam it down his gullet with his fist.

_Temper, temper, Sammy..._

Sam shivered, the echo of Dean's voice in his head, along with a fleeting mental image of Dean's classic twist of his lips, eyes dancing with mockery and concern had him fighting for breath. It had only been seventeen hours - but it felt more like seventeen _years_ since he had last seen his brother. Though he would never forget the look on Dean's face at that warehouse if he lived to be one hundred - haunted, sad, lost, bewildered and..._old_. His brother's face had always told him a thousand things and he had been so busy kicking himself for getting caught and being pissed at Dean for catching him - he didn't stop to read the face that he had always known so well and understood that it was the end.

Such a fucking idiot.

"When you're done over there kickin' yourself, maybe we can talk this out - you know, brainstorm a bit." Bobby harrumphed from the chair.

Sam tilted his head to look at him and Singer gave him a sympathetic look, twisting to lay the paper carefully, almost reverently, on the table, like it was a precious relic or tome that happened to be one of a kind. In a way, Sam mused darkly, it was - it was the last real communication from his brother and its very vagueness spoke volumes to the two men left on earth who knew him best.

Sam blew out a breath, swiping his hand through his bangs one more time before straightening, the hand not clutching Dean's ring falling to grip his thigh as if to hold himself still while they talked this out.

"Sure, Bobby, sorry. Kinda got -"

" - lost in thought, I understand, son. But we need to get our heads together on this - see what we _do_ got compared to what we don't and go from there. I know you're sorry and I know you're pissed at yourself, but frankly Dean's got way to much lead time to get lost on us and we just don't have the time to get lost on what-ifs and maybes." Singer paused, eyes bleeding a strange urgency and sorrow, his own guilt at not catching onto what Dean was doing reflected in the deep, tired lines around his eyes. "Believe me, Sam, I do understand. I keep telling myself that if I had just thought harder on what was buggin' me when I called him, if I had just driven faster, if I had called you to confirm the intel I gave Dean...things might have been alot different. He's not my brother, he's not even my _son_ - but you boys..."

Bobby broke off, looking embarrassed and slightly disgruntled, as if he had been caught sharing something he shouldn't have.

"I just...I get it - but we can't be distracted by ourselves, you understand? We gotta treat this like any other case - though missing persons has never been my thing."

That got a smile out of Sam and they both relaxed a bit, Bobby pleased to see that spark, that deep concentration fall over the kid's face, every fiber of Sam ready to go and kick ass and take names - exactly what they both needed.

"But first - did I see a Chinese joint on my way in here?"

"Yeah," Sam laughed. "Yeah, you did."

"Fresh egg rolls - can't beat that," Bobby smiled. "Okay, food first - I'm starving."

"I could eat," Sam replied, relieved once more. Bobby was always solid, dependable - they would get through this, they would find Dean and they would take him to task for scaring the shit out of them both.

After Sam hugged him and made him endure the biggest chick-flick moment of his life.

Bobby volunteered to go - as long as Sam tried at least once more to try to track Dean's cell, something he gladly agreed to do.

Fifteen minutes later, with two different types of beef, one type of rice (fried) and some of those promised egg rolls (heaven) they put their heads together, laying out the phone call, their journeys to Illinois (Sam even recalling the tickle of knowing Dean was around, strongest when that old man in his truck passed), Sam's talk with the shopkeeper, his tour of the house and their continuous calls to Dean's cell (neither getting an answer).

With food in their bellies they felt a little more hopeful, a little clearer. Sam put down his moo shu beef long enough to check the signal on Dean's sim card, and shook his head, tilting the laptop towards Bobby so he could see better.

"It hasn't moved since I first managed to zero in on it and that was an hour ago, I think he may have _just_ turned it back on, so I was lucky to get a signal at all - before that I got nothin' and he's still not answering any calls. But the signal has still been sitting in one place for over an hour, you know? Since it's dark outside here and this area is pretty close by, I'm guessing it's nightfall there as well." He took a deep breath and shoved another dripping bite of shredded beef into his mouth, chewing as he talked.

"_Sooo_...unless he's hanging out in the middle of an interstate rest area..." a couple of clicks and a map popped up, Sam gesturing with his chopsticks as he continued to eat, "hanging out in the middle, taking a nap on a bench or something." Bobby rolled his eyes to indicate he got where Sam was going. "He's most likely -"

"- flushed it," Bobby finished, tapping the screen with one forefinger. "And I'm guessing that's their sewage tank, right there. Means he did that several hours ago, maybe earlier today - or else it would still be halfway down the pipe, not sitting in one central location, beeping away steadily."

Sam swallowed his mouthful with a nod, cocking his jaw to one side as he closed the laptop, thunking his carton of food down beside it with a carefully weighted hand, that old friend called depression trying to take over again. He shook it off and raised it hands towards Bobby, shrugging his shoulders half-heartedly.

"That's what I've got..._all_ I've got. A tickle of feeling on the road, Dean nowhere to be found, his sim card down a visitor's welcome center toilet and Dad's journal with a cryptic note in it about Mom, angels, and how he's 'sorry about everything' with his ring - _Mom's_ ring, actually - wrapped like a fuck-you present all nice and neat inside. So basically, I've got all of jack and shit - and nothing to go on."

Bobby shook his head, about ready to tell Sam that he was pretty much there himself when he suddenly arrested his own movement, look of surprise and incredulity spreading across his face.

"Wait a second, Sam...you said - you said you 'felt' Dean, on the road - as you were bypassing an old man in a beat-up jalopy truck, right?"

"Yeah," Sam returned, confused and a little disappointed. "What does that have to do with -"

"And an old guy paid for Dean's supplies at the Emporium, right?"

Sam stopped dead, going pale as he put it together, but hope was too bright there, it was too easy. "Yeah..._yeah_ - but Bobby, that could just be a coincidence. Or just an old guy that bought Dean his stuff - doesn't mean anything."

"Can't hurt to look though, can it? I mean, are you going to be able to find him right now, as in _tonight_? You know he's traveling and the further he gets..." Bobby shook his head. "I know I'm saying it wrong - but we can't just rush headlong into this. You need to rest and we need some answers. We probably ain't gonna find him before tomorrow afternoon, but we have the means here to at least try to track him. If he's done what I think he's done, it goes against pattern and is rather sloppy for Dean, but I must say it's still damned clever. What if he hitched a ride - say, with an old man - all the way here? What's to say that old man didn't do Dean a favor when they got here - like get him some supplies at a magic shop, so Dean wouldn't get caught on camera?"

"It's too easy," Sam protested. "Dean knows we would catch on, eventually - if not sooner. So why go to all the trouble when he'll just get found out anyhow?"

"But that's the thing Sam - I think he's more interested in beating feet quick than covering his tracks too well. Something's got the boy spooked - and he's running hard. He might not be too careful about how he does it. He could have blown in, gotten the job done anyway he could, as _fast_ as he could - and gotten out. The old man buying his supplies kept his face off camera, but it also got the goods he needed to get rid of the 'giest."

Sam thought about it and shrugged his assent. "Would've taken me awhile longer to work out if I didn't have you here helping me, Bobby -"

"Which would have bought him some extra time. We gotta hope he's slowing down now, not speeding up."

"I'm not gonna hold my breath on that, Uncle Bobby - anyway, it's just a theory, isn't it? Until we find this old man, we still have nothing. This could just be one huge fantasy, you know? I mean, passing by that truck, I _thought_ I felt Dean nearby, yeah - but that wasn't the first time today, you know?" Sam quirked his mouth, tossing his hair out of his eyes with a twitch of his head, mouth set in a grim line.

Bobby startled when he said it hadn't been the first time, another idea forming under his ever-present hat, but he shunted it to the side - one theory at a time.

"Hold that thought there, Sam," he grunted. "We'll get back to it - but first things first. How did the old man pay?"

"With cash, no ID required - why?"

"Hmmm...was there a camera in the shop?"

"Yeah, but no video feed - I checked. Camera was _really_ old - whole system probably hasn't been maintenanced or even _updated_ since they opened, which from what I can tell was quite awhile back. Just enough to keep them up to code, but nothing beyond that."

"Okay...you said the shop was at a main intersection though?"

"Yeah, right up the road here - Castle and Main streets."

"Would they have cameras there?"

Sam shrugged, brow furrowing in thought. "It's a rather small town - but that's a pretty busy intersection...so they might, yeah. Hang on -"

He pulled the laptop back towards himself, chewing his lip as his fingers flew over the keys.

"What're ya doin' there, Sam?"

"Uhhh, something I'm really not supposed to be doing - but if I get blocked, I'd have to wait a whole year for Google Earth to catch up, so..." Sam shrugged deprecatingly, half-hearted grin tugging his lips as he explained. "I'm trying to bypass city codes and get access to their camera feed - might take a minute, and that's if they're being rather lazy about secur - here we go."

He tilted the computer back around where Bobby could see too, fingers still tapping away busily. "See? You were right - there's a camera there for the light. All I have to do is run it back and - _son of a __**bitch**_!"

"What?" Bobby barked, startled by Sam's outburst.

"That...that _asshole_ - look there's the damned truck. Right there - parked across the street." He leaned in closer, mumbling an apology at Bobby as he did so, eyes scanning intently for any sign of his brother. "I can't quite make out..._dammit_. Well - that's the old guy I bypassed, I got a pretty good look at him and though the camera isn't the best, that's gotta be him...can't see if Dean's in the truck though - and since it's footage from earlier today, there's no way for me to zoom in - can only do that with live feed on most cameras - _shit_. Wait a second, I'm gonna see if I can catch his plates..."

He clicked a couple more times, speeding up the camera captures until he caught the truck getting ready to pull away. It was turned at such an angle he still couldn't see if Dean was inside the truck's cab, but he managed to capture the truck's plates - seeing they were issued in Indiana (and close where he and Dean had parted ways). Just as it started to pull away, plates in clear view, he could detect a second passenger - not _clearly_, but enough to indicate that Dean just may have been inside.

He whipped his head around to grin at Bobby, freezing the image where the license tags for the truck stood out in clear relief, rummaging for his ever present pen and paper on the table to jot it down.

"Well, boy," Bobby said in obvious relief and joy. "Looks like we're a little further ahead than we thought we'd be when we started."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam said sincerely. "I have no idea how I would have found this without you -"

"Awww, hell - you'da figured it out," Bobby said with a pleased cock of his head. Then he raised his eyebrows at Sam, grin mischievous as he cut his eyes away, his next words all Bobby even as they were kind of true. "Just woulda taken you a hell of a lot longer."

Sam laughed lightly and clapped Bobby on the shoulder. "Yeah, you've got a point there - how about we commit another crime and see who this guy is?"

"Sounds good to me," Singer drawled and sat back to wait while Sam to work his magic.

**0-0-0**

_"So, how'd you do, Sammy?"_

_"I gotta do extra laps tonight - twenty of 'em, too! I'll never get this - I'm just...I'm not good enough! I'll_ never _be good enough!" It was said with a sulky twist to his lips as he flung himself across his bed, face turned away from his brother._

_"Aww, c'mon, Sammy - it's just tracking. It's easy - I know you can do this. You can be better than me, than_ Dad _- you got good eyes, you just...over think it."_

_"Yeah, well - easy for you to say..._you _don't have to do laps tonight."_

_"I'll do 'em with you, no sweat."_

_"Really?"_

_"Sure, Sammy - and I'll give ya a few pointers along the way...for next time, you know?"_

_"Would you, Dean? That'd be great!"_

_"Sure, Sammy - what kind of brother would I be if I didn't pass along some of my natural awesomeness." Dean gave a sarcastic smirk right on cue._

_Sam made a noise that indicated how not impressed he was, but there was a smile in his voice._

_"Thanks, Dean."_

_"Anytime little brother..."_

**0-0-0**

**11:03PM**

He was almost forced to pull over.

He was so wiped he had almost run the Honda off the road several times and the appearance of a state trooper on his tail for two to three miles, casually riding his bumper, really did nothing to help his nerves. The sight of that light-bar behind him reminded him (with a scary spike of adrenaline that thumped sourly through his overheated skull) that he had been traveling too long.

He had made pretty good headway so far, so a couple of hours to face-plant certainly wouldn't kill him - but if he tried to keep to the road, that just might. Or it would get him hardcore busted with a stolen car, neither a good option in his full term plans to keep breathing free air Topside.

He pulled in at a no-tell motel and plunked down enough to get him a few hours of sleep before management booted him. This had two advantages - one, no one would be paying attention to him or his vehicle and two, when he went to boost his next car he could have his pick from the various pervs that this establishment usually catered to. It would take them a little while to bitch that their car was gakked (for obvious reasons) and it would get him further down the road before he would even have to switch plates. He had already done so twice with the Honda, both at poorly monitored gas stations, but he knew it was well past time to get a new ride.

Dean didn't even bother to toe off his boots (and stripping down here was definitely not an option - _yuk_), just threw himself across the bed, alarm on his watch set for 2am. It didn't take long for him to fall into a deep sleep, his mind too exhausted to even torment him with dreams of terror and blood, or if it did, he was too deep down to experience them. He was a little more with it when he staggered awake, the nap just enough to take the edge off, but also enough that he felt better than he had the past two days. Three hours was never going to be enough to make up for three days of sleepless, adrenaline-fueled running, but it would get him a little further towards his new destination - it was just going to have to be enough.

He turned in his keys at the office and even got a few bucks back for clearing out early, a smile on his face and a flutter of satisfaction in his heart as he watched his next ride pull in at the far end of the lot, the owner a greasy nerd with a polo problem, a bored looking redhead in tow. He waited a few minutes to let them get started (and boy, didn't _that_ conjure up unpleasant images) his jimmy popping the lock of the ancient Beamer in record time, the car started up in under the next thirty seconds - pulling away a mere fifteen minutes after he had woken up.

Within the next ten minutes, coffee in hand and gas in the tank (courtesy of D. Hasselhoff) Dean was back on the road, windows rolled down to let in the chilly night air, radio up and blasting classic rock from a local station. The hellish images tried to crowd back into his cobweb free mind, but with a monstrous effort of will, he kept them at bay, letting Boston's _'Smokin'_ take up whatever attention was focused on the blacktop under his stolen wheels.

Generally it took about a day and a half to two and a half days to get to Arizona (with stops of course for gas, food and rest) but if he pushed it hard, kept it at this pace, he just might make it in under a day. It was a good goal - and he found himself singing along to Lynard Skynard as Boston faded into _'Freebird'_, his heart light and almost happy for the first time in three days. He had good (well, _passable_) coffee bleeding caffeinated strength to his limbs, cool air rushing past him, making him feel more awake than he had in ages and good tunes at his disposal (well, for the next forty miles or so anyway).

For now, under the dusting of stars lighting his path, he felt like he could breathe again - he felt good, he felt at peace (nightmarish visions in the back of his head notwithstanding). As long as that held for the next hundred miles or so, Dean thought for the first time in quite awhile that he just might make it. Whatever may lie ahead, he felt ready to face it and for now...for now he could roll with that, even if it meant being alone.


	11. Chapter 11

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Six**

**Part One**

**'On the Border Line (**_**Of the Edge**_**)**'

_**Read between the lines of what's fucked up and everything's alright - Check my vital signs and know I'm still alive - And I walk alone**_** - Greenday**

_He lay gasping amongst the spongy undergrowth of the forest floor, heart pumping his life out of his body via the artery running through his left thigh, his skin cold and hot all at once as he crawled to what remained of the skinwalker, determined to finish the job before the job finish him once and for all. It had nicked him, low and fast before he could get the final shot off, his brain registering the hit several seconds after it happened, the white-hot flash of it buckling his knee even as he spun to squeeze off the lethal round, the skinwalker screeching its rage as it fell, its life gone even as it landed on the forrest floor, the last echoes of its cry reverberating through the trees as Dean folded beside it, lower half of his jeans already streaked with slick gore._

_He struggled the short distance to its corpse, digging his salt and lighter fluid out of the inner pocket of his jean jacket, pain flashing across his face as he pulled himself to a sitting position. His heart raced madly against his ribs as the trees blurred above him, their leafy canopy pressing down to suffocate the air out of his lungs as he fought for every panted breath, leg singing muted fire up to his hip. Seconds later the skinwalker went up in actual flames, the dampness of the ground keeping the fire from spreading as it burned. He realized in a hazy, distant way that he needed to treat his wound before he bled out, but he couldn't seem to summon the strength or need to do so as he collapsed on his back, body tilted away from the roasting meat of his enemy on his right._

Get up... 

_'_I can't_,' he thought miserably, almost relieved when his skin started to go numb from shock. '_It's too hard, lemme alone.._'_

Dean...I can't do this without you - c'mon! Get up... 

_"No Sammy," he breathed, misery spreading the cold to his heart, each breath stuttering on its way to his lungs, the effort to breathe too much as the pain ate the flesh from his knee to his pelvis, leaving him boneless amongst the stink of mildewed leaves and peat moss. "You don't need me...you need...school."_

For Dad, then - what will he do without you? 

_Sam's voice sounded desperate now, the edge of a plea making his tone harsh and colorless. Dean barked a weak laugh, trying to roll to his side and falling back again when even that proved too much for his battered senses._

_"Dad...doesn't need m-me...Sammy," he groaned, right knee jerking and dancing reflexively with each hitched drag of oxygen. "N-no...no one...needs m-me...anymore. I could...I could just -"_

Dean - please! 

_"Go...'way...S-saamm." He sighed, letting his eyes flutter closed for a moment - just a moment. He just needed to rest - just a moment, then it would all be fine. "Lemme...'lone...J-job's...done - thasss all tha' m-mm..."_

Get up! Get the FUCK UP! 

_His eyes snapped open, hardening in surprise and anger at being disturbed, upper half heaving upright even as he screamed a muted grunt to the suffocating canopy above. He wobbled in place, eyes looking for Sam even as he knew it was all in his head._

_"_Fuck_, Sam -" he moaned, world tilting dizzily as he fought the urge to throw up, one hand digging instinctively into his injured leg, the shock of it sending a lightning flash of pain flaring to life behind his eyes as adrenaline flooded his system, the air suddenly too cool against his burning flesh. "Imma fucking gonna kick your ass you little shit, not letting...letting a man die in fuckin' peace."_

_He wheezed the last statement out between gritted teeth, eyes falling to the gore streaking his lap, almost surprised at the deep maroon wetness that leaked sluggishly from the cut - deep but small against the expanse of his jean-clad leg. He hissed at the pool of blood streaked all around him, pulling up his shirts and digging his knife out of his back pocket, knowing in a bleary way what he had to do._

_Dean cut a portion of his undershirt away and ripped the material around the wound, exposing the throbbing ache of it to the humid air and shakily tied the strip of shirt above the gash, tightening the cloth as best as he could against his leg. He was gasping from effort as he tied a knot to hold it in place, other hand searching for a stick amongst the debris all around him on the forrest floor. It was going to be crude and messy, but it would save him until he got to the nearest ER - that was, if he even made it that far._

_"Fucking kid," he grunted breathlessly. "Fuckin' crap I'll put myself through for you."_

_He found a thick (though rather short) branch of green wood, before hunting around again for a sizable rock, fingers landing against a suitable one in seconds. His grip was loose and slippery as he tossed it towards the flaming pyre that was at one time a skinwalker making sure he got it near enough for him to reach it, so it could be pulled out when it got good and hot, but close enough to the fire that it heated quickly._

_'_This...is gonna suck_,' he thought grimly as he pulled his jacket off. He wrapped the thick material around his right hand, waiting a few more seconds before using the stick to knock the heated rock closer to himself, hoping he gave it enough time to get truly hot - or else he would have to do this trick again._

_Sweat dripped into his eyes as he slid one end of the stick under the makeshift tourniquet, holding it with his left as he leaned (and almost face-planted) to grab the rock with his wrapped hand. He twisted the stick under the bandage to tighten the material around his thigh as he held the rock against the oozing wound that peeked darkly from the rip in his jeans, the surrounding skin pale and irritated-looking. He sucked in a trembling breath as pain rocked through him, the sizzle and smoke of his own flesh sweet and yet horrifying as he screamed his agony to the winking stars above the trees, hand never wavering as it pressed the pain deeper into his thigh, every muscle in his body taut and straining as he fought to stay conscious._

_"Fuck, fuck,_ fuck_!" he gritted, tears of pain leaking out of his tightly squeezed eyes, rock finally dropping beneath his bent knee, fingers cramped and numb from the grip on the heated granite, singing relief when he unwrapped them and exposed their singed tips to the coolness of the open air. There was no one to hear him (except maybe the Sammy in his head) so he let out a few shaky sobs, the pull and grate of his ribs against his over-shirts a relief even as his skin tightened on his bones._

_"Fuck you, Sammy," he rasped out after a few minutes of trembling grey, his fight to stay awake almost lost as he concentrated on deep, even breaths, the world spinning and yo-yoing around him for a few miserable seconds. And to think, he could have just died and spared himself the type of pain that only he-men put themselves through. "Fuck you anyhow..."_

_It took another fifteen minutes for him to pull himself to his feet, aided with a couple of M&Ms stashed in his pockets and a slug of holy water to wash them down with, the rest of the holy water being dumped over his wound as a preventative measure. Of course when he had done that, he had needed those extra five minutes to stifle his whimpers as the flesh smoked anew, his precaution smarter than he had previously thought._

_When the world had finally righted itself again he pulled himself laboriously to his feet, unsure if his weight would hold him as he stilled halfway up, the world trying to slide away for a black moment as blood rushed back to his extremities. After a few bleary blinks he remembered the tourniquet and fumbled with the knot, tossing the stick away as he staggered to his duffle, noting the warm tickle of blood had virtually stopped, the combination of cauterization and holy water having done the job - for the moment anyhow. _

_The jeans (his favorites, too, of course) were ruined, though._

_He spared one last glance at the burning pile of remains, shaking his head as he forced his duffle up over his shoulder, leaning against a tree for balance - hoping he could make that mile and a half to the car before dawn. He tilted his head up to the trees above, thanks in the watery smile that flitted briefly over his lips as he mentally prepared himself for the long hike, leg singing a protest at the very idea, a protest that went ignored as he took his first shuffling step towards the road, breathing through the pain that howled through him with each flex of muscle._

_'_Always was a pain in the ass there, Sammy..._'_

You're welcome, Dean.

_A sigh in the surrounding trees, before it too melted away - leaving only the crackling mess of skin and bone to mar the peace that fell over the nighttime woods, the trees themselves seeming to contemplate the end of a reign of terror in the piled ashes once known as the Walking Death of Men._

**0-0-0**

**7:22AM**

"_Dammit_, Sam, we are _not_ gonna discuss this! You said he's seen your face, so that right there will blow my cover! Just stay in the Impala and let me work the scam!"

"But I'll _know_ if he's lying - c'mon Uncle Bobby, we've come this far together, don't leave me outta the loop here!"

They'd been having this same argument for the last few hours, the theme varied but the basic argument was still the same.

Bobby wanted to go in alone and Sam wanted to tag along when he went to question Birch. The biggest problem with that was the fact that Sam and Bobby both knew that Collins could identify Sam on sight. The slightly smaller problem being that the youngest Winchester didn't really seem to care. His need to find Dean was overriding the last bit of sense he had left, his desperation so vivid Bobby could swear he could taste it on the back of his tongue.

Sleep had been next to non-existent since they had found the plate numbers for the old man's truck. Try as he might, Sam hadn't been able to find a way to hack into the DMV records for Indiana, so Bobby called in a few favors and before you could say 'fuck me running' they had an address for one Birch Collins in Sellersburg, Indiana. Then came the big struggle of wills. They were both exhausted - completely wiped out from fear, uncertainty and lack of sleep and it had started to show as their tempers frayed, their nerves strained raw from the sheer tension of having the answers they needed, yet not having enough to actually run with. Out of self-preservation (and really Sam's safety and well-being if Singer was going to be stuck with him for such long periods in an enclosed space) the older man forced him to lay down for a few hours. They made the attempt but neither of them slept well, ever aware of the ticking clock and time running thin on them.

In the end they wound up calling someone who could pick up and hold onto Bobby's truck for the next few days before hitting the road, stopping only once outside of Bellevue to get gas for the Impala and coffee. Originally it took a bit of convincing to get Bobby to agree to take the Chevy. He was concerned about Birch spotting her and busting them both on the spot, but Sam had made a convincing argument that called a halt to there even being a conversation about it. If they found Dean, he would want to know where his girl was at, that simple. So though it still bugged Bobby in _oh_-so-many ways, they took her instead of Bobby's truck, Sam's logic (at least in this matter) sound and perfectly reasonable.

The Impala was a beautiful car, Singer actually loved riding in her - but she really stuck out like a sore thumb in a nest of pinkie fingers. Adding the fact they were trying to trick information out of a potentially hostile witness (a witness who had seen the car personally and knew the _owner_ of said car) it just made their lines of bullshit that much harder to pull off with grace. Their result ratio was already dropping below marginal lines - but with Sam's proposal to throw himself into the mix and try to charm information out of Collins, well...Bobby knew for a fact that it would not just throw a monkey wrench in the works - it was heaving the whole damned tool-kit at the thing.

But trying to talk sense to a stubborn, desperate Winchester was like trying to pound your head repeatedly into a wall to recall a memory - stupid, impossible and flat-out pointless.

"Look, Sam - this'll be ten times easier if I go it alone. You perched over my shoulder like an over-grown vulture ain't gonna do nothin' but make him shut it and fast. I've got this covered, okay? You gotta trust me on this son, I've been doin' this a sight longer than you. I can get a feel for a potential witness, I can get the information we need - but in order to do that, I need you to sit tight and just wait it out."

"For how long, Bobby? What if he doesn't have anything useful - what if he -"

"_Sam_."

The young man deflated like an old tire, eyes shining with a deep weariness and regret, lips compressed as if to hold any potentially biting remarks at bay, but Bobby had known this kid since he was knee-high to a grasshopper - the tears were close, too close, and Sam felt he couldn't afford to give into them. To do so would declare Dean officially gone and neither one of them were willing to even entertain that thought.

Bobby waited him out as Sam breathed through the reprimand, the youngster's face pale, but composed, his fly-away bangs covering his eyes and any lethal shine of weakness there, his struggle to compose himself almost physical as well as mental. Finally, Sam raised his head, giving a sharp nod towards Singer to show he was giving in, his eyes too large and bright in the weak wash of daylight that bled over the horizon.

"Bobby, I..." He shrugged, mouth trembling as he took a tack from his brother's way of dealing, tilting his face away as though it would make his vulnerability harder to detect. "It's been over 25 hours, you know? I just...I missed him so bad when he...when he _died_ - and I've done nothing but fuck things up since he's come back. I need...I need him to be _okay_ - I need him to know that -"

"He knows, Sam," Bobby broke in, his own heart too heavy to hear those words. It would make this too real, too permanent - again, not something that they could afford to give into. "He's got to. But we'll...we'll find him, okay? We'll find him and you can tell him that personally."

Sam gave a watery laugh, right shoulder rising sharply as he tilted his face back in Bobby's direction, his smile twisted and broken across the jagged line of his lips. "Yeah and put him through the biggest chick flick moment ever? He'll ditch out again so fast his _own_ head would spin."

"Naww, he'll just never let you live it down, 's'all," Bobby returned, his own smile crooked and thin. He felt old all of a sudden - old and tired.

_'Damned Winchesters_.'

He glanced towards the old farmhouse beyond the copse of scrubby trees, trying to rid himself of the feeling that they were too late, that Dean was far beyond the pull of them both, that he had done that unthinkable and left them behind, so much dust in his wake. He took a deep breath and gave himself a mental shake, shedding the personality of Bobby Singer in favor of pulling on the mantle of Special Agent Kayser, Division Supervisor.

"Wish me luck, hey kid?"

"G'luck, Bobby," Sam returned quietly, seeming small and childlike again - startling in a man his size, but with Sam...

"Keep trying him, will ya, boy?" Bobby asked softly, feeling that giving Sam something, anything to do would make this loss of control, of _certainty_ easier for him to bear.

"Of course," Sam replied, looking slightly stung. He glanced at Bobby and whatever he saw in the hunter's face must have relaxed him, soothed his tattered nerves, understanding softening his voice. "I'll keep trying until I get him - just...just do what you can on your end, okay?"

Bobby nodded and dropped his hat in the passenger seat, smoothing his hair over and straightening his tie as he stepped away from the Impala, his manner instantly imposing and professional. Sam thought fleetingly how he was glad someone looking like Bobby did now hadn't come gunning for them over a year ago, but the pang of Victor's death erased that thought as quickly as it had come forcing him to swallow any smart remarks he could have made, regret like lead in the back of his throat. He plucked his cellphone out of his shirt pocket and hit redial as Bobby stepped away, trying for the thousandth time to reach his brother who seemed bound and determined to be unreachable, his sense of Dean and all that made him Dean slipping slowly away as he put miles between them.

'_C'mon Dean_,' he thought wretchedly. '_Just pick up the phone, dude - that's all I ask - just...pick up the damned phone_.'

Bobby deliberately kept his thoughts blank as he approached Birch Collins' home, realizing that any preformed notions of the man would work against him instead of for him in the upcoming conversation. The key to gaining information was to act like you already had it - all you were doing was making the rounds (tedious but necessary) to corroborate what you had against what witnesses may have seen/encountered with the individual or situation in question.

It was moments like these when Bobby let the blasphemous thought creep in that he would have made a good agent (would have made a good _officer_) and gave himself the standard mental slap for thinking such things, just as he mounted the crumbling steps to Birch's front porch, his part unspooling in his mind even as he tried to tuck it away, keep it off of his face. He rang the bell, half afraid of electrical shock the damned thing was so worn and busted looking, and put on a bored and neutral face even as he took in the faded exterior of the old man's farmhouse, the paint long gone to peeling and disrepair.

A ripple of unease washed through him as he realized just how similar his own house looked compared to Collin's, the exterior in need of serious touch up and maintenance - but if he was a betting man (which he was) he'd lay good money that the inside was just as close and he found he had to suppress a shiver at the idea. Nerves made him impatient and he shuffled his feet, the faint sound of barking dogs doing nothing to set him at ease again (Rumsfeld still being sorely missed) as a wizened face peered through a crack in the door, brilliant grey-blue eyes pinning him to the spot, the shine of intelligence and the quick once over he was subjected to telling him this may not be the cakewalk he had originally thought, seventy-eight year old man or no.

"C'n I he'p ya?"

"Mr Collins? Mr Birch Collins?" Bobby droned, sliding his fake Federal badge out with a smooth, unconscious grace.

"Yep - no one else here but me. What can I do you for, Agent..."

"Kayser," Bobby said firmly, holding the badge where it could be read clearly before tucking it away again a few seconds later. "I was wondering if I might have a moment of your time, Mr Collins."

He left it as more of a statement than a question, knowing that most civilians responded with an almost puppy-dog eagerness, afraid of having someone like a federal agent on their front porch, like it might besmirch their good citizenship in some way. It seemed Collins was going to be a tough baby, though, as he just shrugged, never budging from his position in his doorway, wily smile twinkling in his eyes as he took on a relaxed air, placing himself firmly as the 'agent's' equal.

Yup...a tough one.

"I guess you might...don't have anythin' pressing to do today, I s'ppose. Whatcha need there, officer?"

Bobby switched tactics, his manners becoming warmer as he pulled a photo of Dean from the same place he had gotten his badge, movements still smooth and sure as he brandished it just below the old man's nose, letting exhaustion leak into his eyes as he displayed the unflattering mugshot.

"This man has been seen in the area and we just wanted to see if any locals had come across him. A neighbor of yours was sure he had seen him near your dwelling and -" Bobby broke off his 'practiced' ramble at the sharp look he got from the old man, Collins opening up the door wider and stepping through it, his wiry frame almost intimidating as he took two steps towards Singer, eyes deep and assessing as though he had spotted a sure fire enemy but was deciding on how to handle the fact.

In other words, this was starting to go South - and fast.

"Well, I'll be _damned,_" Collins whispered, eyes widening in recognition as he looked Bobby over from head to foot, a sudden smile splitting his face and making him seem much younger than his almost eighty years. "I'll be _good_ God-damned - you..."

Bobby hesitated, taking a step back, half afraid of what Collins was going to say, but practically dying to hear him say it.

"You're Bobby _Singer_."

Okay. He hadn't expected that.

He clamped his mouth shut to keep his jaw from dropping to the dilapidated porch, taking another step back as Collins pushed closer, eyes practically eating him alive as he leaned in, merriment twitching the corners of his mouth.

"I'd bet a friggin' fiver right the hell _now_ that you are!" Almost gleefully - as if guessing correctly won him a prize or something. "You are _just_ as he described you...down to the last _detail_ - well, except for the hat. I was expecting you to have a hat."

This last bit was tossed out in a muted grumble, almost as if the old man was talking to himself instead of to Bobby.

Forget going South. This never started anywhere near the middle if he was going to get caught out flatfooted like this before he even had five full sentences out of his _own_ mouth between them. He went to reply, to bluster that he didn't know what the old fool was rambling about, when he was promptly halted by Birch's next set of words.

"Wellah - if _you're_ here...where's Sam?"

Bobby sighed, shoulders slumping as he tucked the photo of Dean away, one hand rising to pinch the skin above his nose, ease the sudden headache that blossomed there.

"He's...he's down the road a bit. Didn't want to tip you off with the car. Had no idea my face _alone_ would be a tip-off." He shrugged tiredly, trying to muster up a smile but coming up flat and empty as he realized that Dean had not only spilled the beans about them, but had probably paved the way for the ultimate stonewall.

"Ahhhh," Birch replied, those sharp eyes still assessing and assessing. "Smart move. Well, I might as well just go 'head and tell you - I'm not going to tell you where he is, where he is going or anything of the sort. I don't have to tell ya where we been, cause, well - you already know that, else you wouldn't be here now, wouldja?"

"I see..." Bobby returned slowly, dismayed that Birch was not only so quick on the uptake, but also surprised that he was going to hold out on them - he must surely know -

"I know how badly Sam there wants his brother back. I know it cause I could feel how badly Dean missed him, even though he needs time - ya know? Now, now," the old man chided, holding one hand up as thought to halt any protest that Bobby may have, cutting him off before he could start. "I'm not gonna tell ya cause I don't rightly know. I dropped that young man off on the side of the road somewheres, same kinda way I found him."

The look on his face said he dared Bobby to call him a liar - but Singer knew even as sure as he was that Collins was feeding him a mile-wide line of bullshit, there was no way he could call him on it. This didn't seem the type of man you wanted as an enemy and he knew if he pushed that's what he'd become, no matter what Dean had said. This old man had determined that there was only one side to be on and though he looked like he wanted to be friendly, to get to know the man Dean had told him about, it was Dean's side he was on and no one else's.

Whereas John could run off friend and foe alike, one as easily as the other, Dean had an uncanny ability to make friends anywhere he went. The only difference between him and Sam was that Sam _knew_ he had that power (and could work it to his advantage) and Dean did not, his first reaction to most people being suspicion and the horrible fear that he'd be found lesser than those he saved. But when he did make a friend, they were instant, loyal and unshakable.

"Mr Singer -"

"Bobby, please - Mr Singer was my father," Bobby responded automatically, heart sinking as he realized their two steps forward were two steps way, way, wayyyy back.

"As it'll do ya - feel free to call me Birch," the old man said almost primly, his eyes sympathetic, warm even - but his demeanor unyielding. "I don't pretend to know what all has gone on between Dean and his brother. Dean and I had a pretty heated discussion on the matter, my opinion being family is family and one shouldn't run from 'em and while I can see where he might normally agree with me on that, he refused to be budged and his wishes are to be respected in my reckoning. Now, as I said, I don't know the whole tale, I'm sure I never will - but I know enough to say that I'm sure that young man has rarely had his way in life - doesn't seem the type to care much about his own-self to tell the truth - an' just b'cause of that and that alone, even if I _did_ know where he was headed, I wouldn't tell you - nor Sam, out of respect for him. Do you understand, Bobby?"

Bobby sighed, wishing for his hat so he could cover what his eyes were thinking, but having to settle instead for kneading the back of his neck, tone resigned, his exhaustion and heartbreak at yet another dead end hard to keep at bay.

"Yeah...yeah, I do - can't say the same for Sam. I don't rightly know how I'm going to break this to him, you know?"

"I don't envy you that task there, Bobby," Birch said, but his voice remained firm even as he blinked apology at Singer. "But that ain't really my problem. I'm sorry I can't give ya' more - but...I picked Dean up close somewheres around here and dropped him off the same way. He asked me to pull over, let him out and we parted ways on a handshake. I don't really remember where I dropped him, but even if I did..."

Birch shook his head, backing up towards his door as he shrugged another empty apology in Bobby's direction.

Singer sighed, knowing exactly how much fun going back and reporting this to Sam was going to be, but grateful that Collins had even bothered to talk to him. He knew what a hard position the old man was in, Dean may not have placed him there (he may have very well done that himself) but he had been in that very same position too many times to count with the Winchesters. It was a matter of damned if you do, damned if you don't - and as much as he dreaded having to go tell Sam that they drove all this way for nothing, he understood where Birch was coming from all too well to just let it go like that.

"Well," Bobby drawled, halting Birch in his backward shuffle. "Thanks for talking to me Birch, I understand that you can't give me anything, but tell me one thing if you would. Did he...did he look okay? I mean, was he -"

"He looked _tired_," Twig supplied, knowing he could give Singer at least this much. "He looked tired and kind of - of spooked, but...I think he'll be okay. Ya'll just need to give him some time, you know? If Sam wants him back so bad, then maybe he oughta think on how he lost him in the first place. Though that advice is just like any other I guess, be taken with two grains of salt and whistle. Just...just have him think on that."

Birch stuck his hand out, manner almost shy as he smiled at Bobby, the twinkle back in his eyes as he regarded him with something akin to awe.

"It was really good to meet you though, Bobby," he said softly.

Bobby could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his own mouth, the old man's evident joy at meeting someone that Dean had known, a person that Dean had obviously talked about in great detail (and wasn't that nine kinds of flattering, really) obvious, even if he was giving that person news he didn't want to hear.

"Good to meet you, too, Birch," Bobby returned, relaxing as he gripped the other man's hand in a firm shake.

"No hard feelin's, then?"

"None from me, Birch...just, take this and keep in contact. If you hear anything - well...anything you can tell us - just..just call that number, okay?"

"Will do, Bobby - thanks," Collins replied, taking the proffered card and glancing at it before he pulled his wallet out, tucking the square of cardboard inside with a careful reverence. "Take care of Sam, will you - and take care of you, too. Hope one day we can meet again under better circumstances."

"I hope so, too," Bobby said - but he was talking to air, as Birch had already gone back inside his house, door closed firmly against Bobby and any hope he had of finding Dean anytime soon. To coin a phrase from that same individual, this whole situation sucked out loud - and here in the next few minutes, he could see it wasn't going to get any more fun.

Bobby made his way back down the crumbling steps, trying to come up with the best way to break it to Sam that they hit a dead end.

He still hadn't come up with anything good by the time he made it to the car just a minute later - and from the look on Sam's face he was expecting anything other than what Bobby had to say (which really wasn't much).

'_Well_,' Singer thought sarcastically, '_This day just_ _can't get any better, can it?_'

**0-0-0**

_It was well that Castiel could remember that day - it was one that would be forever etched into his mind, easily recalled even if he lived eons like his brothers had before him. _

_He had been (and still was) very young yet, barely a millenia, his magick consisting of spell castings and incantations, runes and sigils. He had no ability to snap his fingers and alter the reality (or perception of such) in creatures around him. He had no ability to bring a dead man to life based on a mere whim, or shatter the earth with his war cry. He was no Arch-Angel by any stretch of the imagination - he was barely a regular angel, too young and squirming and new to even be worthy of the title 'Angel' or 'Messenger of God'._

_So why he had even been Called...only the Lord knew that. _

_But his Superior, Anaiel said she would show him the ropes, that he would earn his stripes with this mission - so he left any puzzlement over his assignment to the wayside. If his General saw him fit for this task, then he would be so. _

_But when time came to lay siege to Hell's Gates (and for the first time since Lucifer and the Fallen had been sealed behind them) Anaiel was nowhere to be seen - and no one had any answers. Well, no answers that they would be willing to give a fledgling that had barely earned the right to_ look _upon his Superiors, much less ask them stupid questions which were none of his concern. So even though his curiosity boiled behind his tongue, he stayed silent - and was sure to be where Anaiel assigned him. His General had asked that he be in the rear, covering the flankings of those who were to wage the War upon Lucifer's Realm, to observe, protect and shield his Brothers. This, he could do._

_This position also gave him the perfect opportunity to eavesdrop._

_While Castiel was not normally inclined to such sneaky tactics, his General (who had sent the alarm, drawn up the plans and called the Battalion) not being present was enough to force him to push beyond his comfort zone, to gather information in her stead. And what he heard was decidedly not good. Seems his Commander had blasphemed, had gone against Heaven's code of honor - and was forced to rip out her own Grace. Her Fate was now left to God and Castiel could only hope she was shown mercy for any transgressions against their Father and his orders (though what exactly she had done was still very much a mystery)._

_Of course, this left him to wonder if they would still be moving forward with her plans, but it seemed the garrison was all set. No one had stopped to question her previous orders and no one seemed to notice that she had included him, the youngest, the lowliest among them, to join in the fight. So he kept silent, wanting more than ever to honor her final commands (even as he was unsure whether those orders were completely righteous, almost fearing the taint of her actions to spill onto those around him) his excitement at this opportunity growing as the Battalion shifted ever closer to the First Gate of Hell's Dominion._

_After that, it was a blur. It was a clash of Darkness and Light, Venom and Shadows melding, blending and falling away before the Warriors of Virtue, his brothers and sisters were fierce, their blows to the Enemy true and bold and while he knew time had passed (too much of it besides) it seemed that in a mere eye blink, they were There._

_He wasn't told much about this Mission. He knew they had to rescue a Soul from the Domain of Hell, bring it back to dwell upon the Earth - and while this confused him (for wasn't Hell a holding point for those who had earned their way to Its torments?) he was prepared to do as he was commanded - to fight and free the Soul and bring it back. Of course, it wasn't_ him _that was to grab that soul and wrest it from its captors - he was here to observe, to protect, to shield. He had fought as well as he could beside his betters and had actually made it to their destination, all the while hoping he had made his Father proud (hoping that his General would have approved his actions, once upon a time) but he hadn't dared to think that he would be forced to do the work of an Arch-Angel._

_Amid the chaos and deafening cries around him, some from the fray, some from the denizen and their various torments, he saw the Soul they were to rescue._

_"It's too late!" Achmiel boomed to his right, lance dancing too fast to be seen as he warded off the Guardians that fell upon Their Contingent. "He has been Turned!"_

_"Nonetheless," came the answer from afar, Ezchmel's voice clear and beautiful against the writhing wails that surrounded him, "our orders are clear!"_

_But how would any of his brothers and sisters be able to lay claim upon this Soul and raise it from this Perdition? The supply of angry demons and enforcers seemed never-ending - and the battalion's strength was waning against the onslaught - even now he saw Ichmekel falter, his wounds deep and his Grace flickering. He flew to his brother's side, his own lance out, his strikes swift (though less sure) as he tried to protect his weakening brother. _

_He succeeded long enough to get Ichmekel back to his feet, a feeling of panic, of being overwhelmed eating at the edges of his mind, knowing for sure that even_ if _he earned the 'stripes' Anaiel had promised, he may not make it out to see that honor. He was willing to die for his brothers and sisters, for their Cause, for his Father - but he did not wish to die only to have the Mission fail because he was too young, too_ weak _to aid them._

_He turned to look at the Soul, Its beauty startling amongst the twisted, horrifying forms that surrounded It, a fierce, enraged look upon Its face, obviously confused and half-mad from the torments It had endured thus far. He wondered why Ezchmel insisted that it was too late - then he saw the weapon that It carried, the fine shine of damascus steel honed to a wicked edge clutched in one hand, Its stance declaring that It knew how to use that weapon and was more than willing to do so - but another form held it back, almost shielding it from the battle that raged around them._

_Castiel gazed at the sight curiously, the Demon that kept their Charge from them silent and unmoving, his face a mask of rage and uncertainty - though he held himself (and the Soul) out of the line of battle, wings flared to keep the Soul from the sight-line of the Host. The gesture seemed intimate, even protective - and he was left to wonder why that was so, even as he fought a clear path to where the two stood, the mark of This Land shining weakly from the One they were to save_.

_He kept the line open, defending it for his betters to move in and claim what God had ordered them to this Land for, laying waste to those that would move to shift his stance, to oppose the might and force of Their Army. Uriel fought his way to Castiel side, his joy at this battle clear in the shine of his eyes._

_"My brother!" Uriel shouted, parrying lethal blows from all sides as he approached, his war cry clearing paths that his lance could not. "My brother you have defended well! You have indeed earned your ranking amongst your Kin!"_

_"I live to serve God," Castiel answered in greeting. "Will you not take this task upon yourself, brother? End this battle and fulfill the Mission?"_

_But his question was unanswered as the battle suddenly shifted very much to Hell's side - two or three of his brothers faltering and falling as the seething mass of the damned tripled in number, their efforts to keep them from their goal refreshed with each new wave. The Demon that kept their Charge from the grasp of The Host turned his back to the fray long enough to speak quietly with the Soul, the Soul nodding in response, fear and awe sweeping Its features even as It prepared to do what was ordered of It (whatever that may be). The message that had been passed became clear as the Demon that had been standing over It plucked the weapon from the Soul's fingers before heading straight for the path Castiel had cleared - and thus Castiel and Uriel themselves. _

_Castiel let out a cry as the Soul retreated, heading further back into the Reaches of Hell, gaining speed as It traveled, Its form almost swallowed by the endless cavern they were in, intent on escaping into the Depths beyond - _

_All would be lost if It succeeded._

_"Castiel!" Uriel cried desperately, his own grin of triumph and joy wavering as the onslaught continued to increase, his attention held between the Demon (and Overlord obviously) who threatened to split their ranks and the hordes that had redoubled their efforts to destroy the invading Contingent. "Stop him! You know what you have to do!"_

_"Uriel!" Castiel protested, fear now very much alive in his heart. He was not made for this! He was to shield, to protect - this was work for Arch-Angels, or for those of Uriel and Ezchmel's ranks. Not for a fledgling, not for an angel who had not even as yet been alive a full eon._

_"Castiel! I Charge you!" Uriel cried, staggering as a descending sword clipped his mighty wings. Blood sprayed, frightening Castiel and freezing him in place. He was almost skewered by another sword, too frightened to even defend himself - but a quick chop from another one of his brothers kept him from being hurt._

_He was going to make them all fail! He couldn't even do as originally Charged - to defend, to shield, to protect. This was too much, they asked too much of him - he was too young, too inexperienced -_

_"_Castiel_!" boomed Ezchmel from the depths of another wave of The Enemy. "Castiel! I Charge you!"_

_The cry went up all around - the very Halls of Perdition ringing with the sound, the sweet tones and silver, of light and grace did what the lances could not - knocking back the rank and file of the Enemy, scattering the weaker of those ranks, some demons unable to behold the True sounds of their presence, shrieking blackness and poison as they fell back into the waiting shadows, their screams mingling into voided echoes as the Things that lived within those Shadows devoured the weak and powerless of their numbers._

Castiel! I Charge you! We Charge you! We lay this Task upon you in the name of Our Father!

_Suddenly, it mattered not that he was the youngest, the weakest, the least of them. It ceased to matter that he was afraid, that he was not as mighty or fierce as his Brethren. It mattered that they had Called him to the forefront of Their Mission (for the Mission itself was never his, even he was wise enough to comprehend) to take the Soul out of Hell's grasp and return it to the Land of the Living, amongst those who breathed and lived and died and prayed and sinned and multiplied. He had been Charged - the rest of his fears and reasonings and his very_ smallness _mattered no longer. He was Tasked - and for the very lives of his brothers and sisters, he must Obey._

_The Demon that approached halted at the Cry that rose around Him, the resonance of all those Angelic Voices seeming to slow him, even if it did not stop him completely. Castiel had little time to wonder at the Creature's strength of Will as he dodged around Uriel, sliding under the lance of Ezchmel as it descended, his focus now on the Soul that was intent on disappearing into the Depths as It was ordered by Its Master, never mind that said Master had now figured out who he was - and what he was about to do._

_The Thing smiled Malice and Hatred at him, Its movements swift and wily as an eel as it moved to intercept Castiel, jealousy and rage slick and sinister on the stretched horror of Its Face._

_"I shall_ kill _you Small One," It hissed, the grate and shift of Its voice almost slowing Castiel as he made to dart past. The Thing -_

'Alistair,' _his mind supplied, the very essence of the Creature ripping through him like a venomous blade, shivering down to his core._ _'Alistair_ - Dean's Lord and Master.'

- _flowed toward him like silken Death, rows upon rows of sharp teeth descending to shred into his very Grace, claws reaching to rip his wings from his shoulders. He could feel the oozing, oily catch of them on his feathers and uttered a startled cry of disgust and terror, the touch only spurring him to move faster, rather than slow him down. _

_His brothers and sisters converged as one, stopping the Overlord from further movement and giving Castiel a way of escape - and much needed time - to run down their wayward Soul (_Dean_) and save him from himself. Castiel shook the feel of Alistair off of his wings, (very sure that if he had to endure that touch for as long as their Charge had, he would have been mad within days) barely pausing to admire the trap that ensnared that encircled the Demon. His Brethren's strength and surety renewed as Castiel picked up speed along his assigned course, Hell's Denizens too stunned to stop him as he barrelled in the direction the soul had melted toward, almost half afraid that he would lose him after all - and all of this would have been for nothing._

_He spotted the Soul (_Dean_) after mere minutes, his essence shining out amongst those that conspired to hide It, the teeming masses of the Damned flowing to hide him from the Angel's eyes, even as they fell back, gibbering, his Grace and Light too much for them to bear the further he descended into their midst. He followed for what seemed his lifetime and several more besides, dodging, darting and striking at those who would hinder him, until at long last, there seemed to be no further ground to run in, the Soul (_DEAN_) spinning to face him, a snarl of fear and defiance twisting those (amazingly enough) beautiful features into something more akin to the Damned around him, madness and loathing permeating the air around him in putrid, gray waves._

_The Soul was weaponless against that he considered an Enemy, his pseudo-skin layered gore from the other souls he had destroyed, his pureness flickering, faltering under the weight of his transgressions and Castiel almost stopped, almost begged off the Charge that had been laid upon him, so great was his own loathing, his own disgust and fear. How could this...this rabid_ THING _be saved? How was that even_ possible_?_

_But God had commanded it and so it must be. Who was he to know the mind of the Creator - he was just a lowly Angel with a terrific Charge laid upon him, one that was not fit for a creature that didn't even hold a_ Ranking_. _

_But one that was laid upon him nonetheless. _

_Once the Mission was accomplished, then he could retreat back to being Castiel, the Daydreamer, the Weaver of said Daydreams and Musings - the lowliest angel of his Garrison. but until that time, he had to assume the mantle of Arch-Angel and raise this Soul from the depths of his Torment._

_Though Castiel had to swallow back disgust and fear, the Soul (_Dean_) did not flinch, did not sway back from him as he reached out, his manner proud and unwavering even as his fear increased, his shoulders squared, braced for whatever Castiel planned to do -_

_- '_They have come to destroy me_,' touched through Castiel's mind, hope and fear and relief dancing through the muted singing that was the core of the (_Dean's_) Soul. '_Just please make it quick -_'_

_- and pity washed through Castiel as he laid his hand upon the Soul's shoulder, melding their flesh as he wrapped him in his Grace, preparing the Soul for Its Journey. Grace and Soul entwined, Dean's Fear, his Hopes, his Dreams, his Fierceness, his Love, his Loyalty - all that made him Who/What he was and_ is _- shot through Castiel's Grace, Castiel's pity and disgust melting into an emotion more akin to awe, to Knowing as he looked deep into Dean - and saw that Spark, that inner light that was worth_ everything_. Worth the Mission, worth the endless battle, the exposure to the Horrors that bled through Satan's Dominion. And he felt Dean look into_ him_ in return, his fear blowing away under Castiel's gaze, to be replaced with sorrow and the surety that the Host had made a grave mistake._

_"Castiel," he breathed, shaking his head as the angel engulfed them both in the span of his wings. "This is wrong -_ I _am wrong. It's too late - save your Garrison...save yourself. It's too_ late _-"_

_"_Never_," the angel returned, smiling into the face of Dean's confusion and horror. He_ knew _him now - down to his essence, down to his very last cell and he was fiercely proud that he was Charged to sheperd Dean back to Earth, he would fight for that Charge now, keep it jealous and close to himself if Challenged. "We have come for you, Dean Winchester."_

_"This is a mistake -"_

_"And that is why we have been Tasked with your Rescue - God needs a Warrior such as yourself, Dean. This is no Mistake. Our Father needs you Whole again, has Charged my Garrison with that Mission." Castiel hummed Grace and Forgiveness through the Soul of Dean Winchester, feeling the doubt and fear wash away under his patient gaze. _

_"We have come to Take you Home..."_

_With a strong, sure beat of his wings, Hell melted away to a mere Nightmare. He felt his brothers and sisters Rise alongside him, the Battalion moving as one as they removed Hell's Prize from Its dank and putrid clutches -_

_The Mission had been fulfilled - the rest was up to Dean._


	12. Chapter 12

**Perspectives**

**Chapter Six**

**Part Two**

**'Come Back to Me**'

_**Don't call me back, I had everything I needed - For every lie, honey, the truth lay underneath it**_ **- Carina Round**

**11:25AM**

He had seriously been contemplating pulling over and hitching a ride the rest of the way to Flagstaff, the nap he had taken earlier had long worn off and his supply of coffee had been severely diminished. There was a rest stop about a mile and a half ahead and with the time of day it was, there were bound to be truckers hanging around - and at least one of them would be more than happy to have a passenger to ride with and keep them company. Even if said trucker could only take him half the way there, he'd be ahead of his game - and be in less danger of getting nabbed with a stolen car.

He was about an hour and a half outside of Amarillo, Texas (amazed at how quickly he had made the journey, even without speeding to get him by) the wheels of his newly acquired '98 Dodge Ram clocking the mileage by with a sure steadiness - though the vehicle itself was nothing compared to his girl's. The owner had been kind enough to leave him a full tank and a working AC which, even with autumn in full sway over the States, was sorely needed as the heat index climbed to match the desert terrain that occasionally flashed by his windows.

The radio had long fallen to static and even as he toyed with the idea of pulling over and thumbing it the rest of the way, Dean found himself fiddling with the dial anyway, hoping to get at least one good tune in before being at the mercy of the country and western he was going to be subjected to for the next few hours. That is, if his plan worked - which (being a Winchester by default) didn't always happen the way one worked it out in one's head.

So of course, what he hadn't calculated for was ramming the Ram off the road from sheer surprise and 'what-the-fuck?' when Castiel suddenly appeared in the passenger seat next to him - which would have happened if he had been A) a poor driver (and thus slow on the reflexes) and/or B) a little easier to rattle.

Still was a close thing, though, as he forced himself to relax, grateful that oncoming traffic was sparse as he let the Dodge's wheels drift back into the correct lane.

The rushing whir of thousands of wings overwhelmed the silence as Castiel made his entrance, the air too thin and almost sweet to the taste for a few seconds as Dean fought to get his galloping heart under control, amazed that his hands were still steady as he got the truck coordinated once more, shooting the angel an aggravated glance while he bit back the first words that popped into his head. He was quite sure telling an Angel of the Lord to go fuck off and die had consequences that even _he_ couldn't imagine, so Dean settled for his next choice of expletives, a little more sure he could get away with them.

"What the _fuck_, Castiel?" he managed, a little embarrassed at the squeak at the end. He coughed to cover the sound, his breath exploding from his chest in a rush as he contemplated all the ways he could have just biffed it, his expression shifting from aggravation to sheer annoyance as Castiel regarded him with that mild, unwavering stare he had that creeped Dean right the fuck on out, his voice modulated and calm as he (of _course_) stated the fucking obvious.

"This is not your normal mode of transport."

"No shit," Dean breathed, pleased when he sounded almost normal - like his heart wasn't still racing to spill out of his ribcage. "What gave you that clue, Sherlock?"

Castiel frowned at him in serious contemplation, an expression that made Dean want to giggle, even as it also gave him the weird compulsion to bash his head repeatedly against the steering wheel.

"Is this not a different vehicle than you generally...drive?"

"Yes, Cas," Dean sighed, pleased when the angel flinched at the bastardization of his name, a distinct ruffling sound from his side of the cab indicating his irritation. Dean bit back a smile and focused his attention back on the road, sure he wouldn't want to hear whatever the creature beside him had to say, but pretty much resigned to it as he was pretty sure there was no possible way to escape him until he had done so.

Unless exiting a truck at seventy plus miles an hour was your thing.

"What do you want?" he asked in a bored tone, taking note of the sign that read 'Rest Area in 1/4 Mile(s)' and watching for the exit, even as he kept half an eye trained on Castiel - who was busily rooting through the Dodge's glove-box. Castiel didn't answer right away, too intent on frowning forebodingly at the registration papers he currently held in his mitts to even acknowledge the question directed at him.

"Did you procure this...truck...in an unethical manner?" There it was again - that strange urge to laugh and make himself unconscious all at once. Instead he settled for another sigh, flipping on his blinker as the exit he sought loomed ahead, hoping the big rig riding his ass would catch the clue and back off. No such luck on that front, but Castiel seemed to get the idea his presence was less than welcome.

"Yes, Cas - I 'procured this truck in an unethical manner'," he mimicked, slowing down as the signs directed. "Kinda had to have a way to get to where I need to go."

"And where might that be?" Without even a hint of true curiosity - it was like talking to a tape recording.

"None of your damned business, Nosy Nell," Dean huffed back. "Why the fuck do _you_ care anyway?"

"I am Charged with -"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah - save it for the choir, sweetheart," Dean grumbled halfheartedly, not even really paying attention to what he was saying. He just wished that Castiel would go find someone else to bug with his cryptic speeches and alien mannerisms.

Castiel seemed to contemplate what he spouted off, though - turning it over in his head and trying to find a meaning where there was none, until he finally gave up and went back to pawing through the glove-box as though it held the answers he sought. Dean shook his head and rubbed shaky fingers across his lips, tapping his fingers along the steering wheel as he tried to tune Castiel's noise out, pulling into a parking space at the far end of the rest area. He could tell this conversation was probably going to be anything but quiet - and as much as he liked being checked out, he certainly didn't feel like doing it at a rest stop in the middle of nowhere surrounded by truckers and vacation families in a stolen vehicle.

He switched the engine off and dropped the keys on the floor-mat, digging out his handkerchief and wiping down the dash and radio buttons, sure now that he wasn't going anywhere else with the truck. It would be too easy for Castiel to go tattling to Sam about where/when he was and with what - a thought that was increasingly making him uncomfortable the more he worried at it.

Maybe it was a blessing that Castiel showed up this early in the game. Better than being caught flatfooted further out along his destination. Now the trick was keeping him mum on Dean's whereabouts and occupied with something else while he made good his escape. It would be cutting it close - putting him right back at square one on the 'try and catch me' game, but it would be worth if he could just figure out how exactly to pull it off.

"Where's your brother?"

Annndd there it was.

Dean paused in mid-wipe, mind racing as he ran the cloth over the bottom of the steering wheel, barely flicking a glance in the angel's direction. Castiel had shoved everything back into the glove box but was having trouble with the mechanized catch, making two or three feeble attempts to close it before giving up and letting it gape open, his eyes boring through the side of Dean's head, the veritable _soul_ of patience.

"Dean -"

"I dunno, how about you try Hunter's Quarterly, maybe they might have some info -"

"_Dean_! You were supposed to -"

"I _know_, alright?" he barked, eyes snapping up to meet the angel's, features unreadable, even though those eyes glittered with a watery fury that disappeared within two sharp blinks, his attention turned back to the task of obliterating his presence from the truck. He huffed a laugh at the idea that his very _life_ consisted mostly of removing all traces that he had, in fact, lived it - and the irony of it rolled heavily across the back of his tongue with an oily, acidic bite, his urge to laugh fighting with the sudden urge to puke at the concept. "I _know_...Castiel - I just...why did you dump all that on me, man?"

_My mother's deal, Sam, Sam's demon problem, Sam's psychic problem - dragging me back Topside to fail all over again, but in the same old ways - _

The angel eyed him quietly, too close, to _there_ for a moment, his very being making it almost impossible for Dean to catch his next breath. He swallowed hard against the acrid lump lodged in his throat, head hanging tiredly as he took another couple of half-hearted swipes at the steering column, too exhausted to even make the attempt any more. He just wanted to curl up and sleep and sleep and sleep. He just wanted to go away and hide for awhile, stop being Dean Winchester, stop breathing, stop thinking, stop...just _stop_.

He wanted to go Home.

He bit his lip to keep the choking noise from tumbling out, squeezing his eyes shut against the horror of what he had just thought, knowing very well what his brain meant by Home, knowing what kind of fucking lowlife that made him when Hell was more Home than Sam and his girl and his job and the open road. He knew what he had become there, but he craved the comfort of having such a role - of being important even if that importance wasn't worth much in the end. Of being somebody, of being needed - of being _wanted_, even if it was just for the topnotch job he did taking other creatures apart molecule by molecule. He had received more praise from Alistair, more attention, more _focus_ in one month alone than he had received from his father in years.

So how pathetic and sick did that make _him_? He wasn't even fit to walk this _Earth_ -

_what's dead should_ stay _dead_

- much less sit in such a close space with a being of Castiel's caliber.

He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth, the lump that had resided in his throat now weighing heavily in his gut, the churning feeling making his legs shake and a cold sweat break out on his forehead.

"First the round-fucking-trip to the 70's without even a kick-ass Delorean to cushion the ride - then Sam..._Sammy_, he -"

Dean took another gulping lungful of air, the headache he had long thought he had been rid of coming back with a vengeance - anger and sorrow hot on its heels. He glared at the silent angel, his eyes reflecting Dean's pain - an almost helpless air around him, as if he was just as lost as Dean was - and dammit, how the fuck was _that_ fair? What right did _he_ have to claim to be a higher being, a fucking _angel_ if he didn't know it all, if there wasn't some stupid lesson or platitude buried in there somewhere?

"_Say_ something, dammit!"

"Dean, I...We didn't know. We knew he was doing _something_ that required demonic involvement, but we had no idea -"

Dean cut him off with a bitter laugh, shaking his head as he dug one knuckle into a traitorous eye that tried to betray him with a single tear that refused to be blinked back. He shook with mirthless, silent laughter, any hope of going back, any hope of answers, of meaning to it all, flying straight out the window with those few words, his world crumbling faster than he could piece it together. He had hoped that maybe, it was just _him_. That he was the only one who carried this taint, that he had managed to keep it from spilling onto his brother - that maybe, just _maybe_, if he removed his presence, Sam would find his way again - that he would be _SAM_ again. But no, his brother had been doing this all along, had been consorting with demons and their kind since he had taken his trip Downstairs via Hell-hound invitational - maybe...maybe even _before_ then. Who would know?

Certainly not this pompous, angelic asshole sitting beside him. This asshole who just sat there and stared at him with that alien, unblinking gaze like he was an interesting bug, maybe - a scrape of dog-shit on the bottom of his shiny fucking loafer. It creeped him out, it pissed him off - and it gave him that terrible, disgusting urge to open Castiel up (nice and _slow_, inside-out) - and see what made him tick.

And goddamn it, he wasn't going to puke a-fucking-gain - he fucking _refused_ to.

"How long?" he managed to grit out at last, closing his eyes and trying to obliterate the image of Castiel on his Rack, pale skin laying in wet, reddish-purple flaps along his ribcage as Dean searched for that _spark_, that life that made him breathe and blink and scream. "How long has he -"

"Not long..."Castiel said chidingly, as if he could see what was playing behind Dean's eyes and he disapproved. The thought that Castiel could actually read his mind and know what a sick bastard he was, what a sadistic, unrepentant monster he had hauled out of the Pit to be amongst real people again almost made him lose the battle with his stomach, his breathing harsh, sobbing wetly out of his throat with each stuttered exhale.

"He...disappeared from our combined vision every time he pursued his...activities. We know it started about three months ago - we just...we didn't know _what_ he was doing."

"Ahhh," Dean gasped thickly, fighting himself for control over his breathing, his blinking, his fucking _thoughts_ - though it was hard to do anything of the sort with those sharp blue eyes boring into him from such a short distance. "Just a few months, then...well - at least he isn't as far along on the monster scale as _I_ am -"

"_Dean_ -" Sorrowfully.

"Don't - just..._don't_, okay? I know what I am, I _know_! Your Father he...he made a mistake, a terrible one, but there's no fixing that now is there? Unless you can throw me back like you promised." He met Castiel's eyes almost pleadingly, his twisted hope dying at the deep well of sadness he found there, the angel's face cut with harsh lines of pain - _his_ pain skewing the features of the being that had been so proud to say that he pulled him from Perdition, the creature that left the mark of his effort on Dean's skin - and Dean couldn't feel anything but sorry for him, his insides cold and heavy with borrowed failure.

He turned away, feeling his mouth tremble with the weight of the last forty years, and all the years that fell before them. A useless, futile waste in the face of all that he had become - and god-_damn_ it he couldn't breathe through this anymore, he _couldn't_ - the guilt alone was going to kill him.

"You...you can't - can you?" Sickened by the heartbreak he could hear in his own voice, the concept of being under Alistair's rule again a weight all on its own, but one that he almost looked forward to - until Castiel's silence destroyed even that hope.

"Dean...you don't _belong_ there -"

"_Right_," Dean laughed, the weight on his chest crushing the sound out of him in a hollow bark. "Yeah, 'cause thinking about carving up the guy who saved you from 'there' is fucking _normal_. Monsters don't do that."

He couldn't look at him, Castiel's scraping pull of breath telling him that he knew - he knew, he saw and he had let it pass. He couldn't look at Castiel and his three-fold reflection of truth, his very youth (strange as the thought sounded) beaming through the holier-than-thou facade, making him too real, too _vulnerable_ -

And Dean knew what he did with vulnerable nowadays.

"Maybe I can still save him -"

"Dean," Gently. "We told you to _watch_ him, to watch out for your brother - to _stop_ it -"

"Stop _what_?" Dean exploded, the darkness within clawing to get out and make that still, unmovable object that was his own personal savior break with a satisfying crunch of flesh and bone colliding - his hands shaking with the need to punish and be punished, to feel the warm, sticky splash of blood flecked against his skin, the taste sour-copper and salty delight -

"Stop fucking _what_?"

"We need you to find -"

"Find _out_ what I'm suppose to stop? Find out just how deep he's gotten, just how far he's _gone_? You _know_ - you _know_ how deep he's gotten into this, you know how far it's _fucking_ _gone_! If he...if he _started_ this fucking merry-go-round to _save_ me, my miraculous ability to breathe fucking _air_ again certainly hasn't stopped him from keeping at it! If anything, I've just made it _worse_! He..he sneaks out when he thinks I'm asleep - he...he can't even _look_ at me anymore!"

Dean kept his eyes averted, biting down so hard on his lower lip blood beaded across his tongue. He licked his lips before he could stop himself, almost shuddering with horror at how right it tasted, how it brought back Home and all that it had stood for - justice, retribution, hatred and agony. He closed his eyes as the memories shattered against one another, oxygen too heavy, too real for his lungs.

"I..._I_ can't look at me anymore. So tell me - how am I suppose to stop him? How am I suppose to do _anything_ - I can't...I can't even -" Dean covered his face, with his hands, nails digging into his scalp on reflex, the sudden shock of pain grounding him, giving him strength.

"We need to find out what the end game is," Castiel gasped from the passenger side of the truck, his voice strained and thin in the close confines of the trucks cab. "We need to find out what the demon's plans for your brother are - but mostly..."

"What?" Dean whispered, weary to his very core. "Mostly, _what_, Castiel?"

"If you can't stop him - if..._we..._can't stop him, we have to...to -"

"What - _kill_ him?" This time the laughter did sound more like a sob, though the thread-like vein of true humor actually shone through this time, his eyes too wet to be anything but tears, even as his voice rang merriment. "Ohhh, fucking _great_! Well, _DAD_ - tell me - how the _fuck_ am I suppose to do that, _huh_? _How_? 'Hey, Sammy - sorry to be such a bitch about this, but if you don't stop doing those psychic-fucking-mind tricks that you lied to me about, Cas and his pals are gonna wipe you from the map'?" He growled it out with false glee and smiling bravado, shoulders twitching in a 'so sue me' shrug.

"Gimme a fucking _break_!"

Cas studied him until he had laughed himself breathless, his eyes serious and grave - which only made his next words more hilarious.

"Actually, if you believe that would work, that was exactly what we had in mind."

Dean brayed another hiccuping bark, no longer sure if he was laughing or crying anymore. He was too drained to even be mortified, too sick to be worried about what a wild, sobbing man in a stolen Dodge Ram would look like to all those sweet, happy families that marched by with their innocent kids and innocent lives and white-picket-fence-30%-APR-fucking-mortgages and barbecues on fucking weekends.

He could be asked to give two fucks and a tin shit about _anything_, he felt so wrung out - his most fervent wish being that he could take away all feeling again, just cease to care, to want, to fucking know right from _wrong_. He wanted to go home where Alistair would wipe all such nonsense away. It would be slow progress, like it was the first time - but that fucking numbness was goddamned _bliss_ compared to what he had now.

"I'm sorry -"

"You don't even know the fucking _meaning_ of the word, so shut it," Dean snapped out, any patience with Castiel's false sympathy having run out with the last of his sanity a few minutes before. "Just...be fucking _quiet_ a moment - _okay_?"

The cab fell into an awkward silence, the thrum of all that was said, all that needed to be said like 9,000 volts under Dean's skin, just buzzing and humming along, ready to inflict damage at any moment. He gathered what was left of his self-control and punched it into submission, wrestling his varied and wild emotions back into something he could more easily contain, relieved when his heart and lungs went back to standard operating procedures.

Castiel's sudden soft outburst startled him, but he found it didn't bring the hot rage he expected either, his insides too worn and aged to muster up more than a weakened hum of irritation.

"You may want to get that."

"What?" Okay, so he was still a little shakier than he liked to admit - and suddenly very, very aware of the passage of time.

"Your phone."

"My...my phone?" he asked, feeling slightly stupid and sleepy from the oceans of feeling he had been drowned in moments before.

"Yes," Castiel returned, voice deep with layered meaning. Dean felt his brain start awake at that tone, reaching for his phone and flipping it open before he could comprehend what he was doing. He put it to his ear before remembering he hadn't even turned the damn thing on yet, pulling it away long enough to set it back to the on position, hitting send almost as soon as he did so, eyes lasering across the angel's in confusion and horror.

He knew who was on the other end - he knew and cursed himself for jumping to the unspoken command in Castiel's voice before putting any thought into it, mind scrambling for fifty million greetings and sarcastic asides that never made it to his mouth, his tongue a fat useless lump of flesh in his mouth.

"_Dean_?" Sam squeaked, his voice tinny and breathless on the other end of the line. "Oh my God - _Dean_? _Please_ let that be you -"

"Hiya, Sammy," he rasped, feeling every emotion he had sequestered in the little lock box in the back of his head fight for freedom at the small, lost quality of his brother's voice, his heart crying out at what he was putting him through. He needed him - Sammy _needed_ him and he had just...just _abandoned_ him back there - what the fuck was he _thinking_?

But all those thoughts were dashed away at the cold bite of Sammy's next statement, his anger, betrayal and mistrust sluicing across the miles to stab at Dean, tearing what remained of his heart to shreds, even as he could feel rage wriggle its way back to freedom.

"Hiya, _Sammy_? Is _that_ _**it**_? Is that all you've got to _say_, Dean?" Dean could _hear_ it - hear the fear, the helpless rage and the sound of a man at his wits end. All rather close to home as he had just run that gamut himself.

But damned if he could stop it all from hitting him again.

His protective walls around his utter void of self were barely manageable as it was, but with the pressure of Sam's self-righteous anger, Castiel's scrutiny and his own horrifying jaunt through memory lane - it was too much. He could feel his iron control wilting like paper even as he scrambled to hold it together, everything, fucking _everything_ that had transpired over the last seventy-two to eighty fucking hours just cascaded through his will like it was made of brittle mesh, the phone creaking in his hand from the force of his last thread of control fraying before he could stop it.

"Yeah," he said casually, his own rage making his voice smooth and calm as an ocean before the storm. "Yeah, that's all I've got to say, Sam. So what have _you_ got to say, huh? Calling for a little catch-up chat, are you?"

Sam paused on the other end of the line, but Dean knew all his buttons - and he had pushed them hard. Sam had always had a bit of a temper problem - even more so since Dean had landed back in the land of the living. His impatience with damned near everything spilling out into even the simplest conversation with strangers, to the point where Dean had to cover him before he could rub everyone the wrong way - a weird role reversal that he wasn't much keen on. It was hard to come off that kinda learning curve when the last person you'd had a deep meaningful conversation with required you to split their tongue in two.

But the fun didn't exactly stop there. Dean thought he'd had to walk on eggshells with _Alistair_ when he was in a bad mood - ol' Ali was nothing compared to Sam in a temper and when that temper rode high and barely contained twenty-four seven, well...then it just became an exercise in 'how-soon'. How soon before Sam lost it and kicked him back to the curb, how soon before it all fell apart again? With the state he was in personally, he couldn't comprehend even five more minutes of that - much less however long it took to find out what some fuzzy-no-named demon's plans were and derail them before they started - however long _that _took.

He could hear it as Sam took the bait, toying with what it was for before plunging ahead irregardless, too set on what he had to say to think about how he said it.

"What do you think you are doing, Dean?"

"Who was that, Sam - was that Ruby? It _was_, wasn't it?" Dean countered, anger coiling hot and yet greasy in his gut. Sam's silence ate at something deep inside, chewed away at the barely restrained despair and sorrow that resided there, barely noticing Castiel still and faded, ever watching beside him.

"So, what - you're just gonna pack up and go? You're just gonna...gonna _leave_ - is that it?" Sam asked in an incredulous tone, disdain and impatience bleeding through his tone. Dean could almost hear the eye roll behind it, his brother ever convinced that Dean was some five year old that had to be placated and coddled.

He bit back the weary need to laugh at this, the message clear - some things never change, just the light that they were seen in.

He didn't want to be Sam's cross to bear, he didn't want to be his mess to clean up, his stupid, dumb-lug, ham-fisted dolt of an older brother that had to be humored and cajoled and guided. He didn't want to hear that somehow he had been lumped in with the rest of the world when Sam had always _been_ Dean's world.

He didn't want to hear that Sam kept him around just because he was family, because he was a useful tool in the fight against evil and not because he was Sam's brother (and yes, there was a difference). He wanted to be needed, to be _wanted_ - but there was only one creature out there that seemed to want him because of himself, not in spite of it and he couldn't even get past the _Now_ to confirm that yeah, he was a fuck-up, a mess, an idiot and a monster. Admitting that out loud to Sam would be a whole new level of failure, even as _not_ admitting it was a failure on it's own.

"You don't need me - you and Ruby go fight demons, Sam," Dean replied, too tired to stop the depression from leaking from his vocal cords.

"So...so that's it? That's the big ending? You see...you see what I can do and you just - _walk_?" Pissed now and ready to fight, tossing the barb for what it was.

"Do you know how far off the reservation you've gone?" Dean gritted, angry at the accusation even though it was true. It just sounded funny coming from his brother, who had spent his whole life running from them - running from _him_ - knowing his next words were going to hurt. They were going to dig and gouge and bleed. "How far from _normal_? From _human_?"

"I'm just exorcising demons..." Sam choke in protest, Dean's jab doing just what it aimed to do.

"With your _mind_!" Dean rasped, beside himself with rage. "What else can you do - huh? What _else_?"

"I told you!" Sam whisper-yelled back, his breathing amped as he fought to not lose his temper with his older brother.

"Right - and I have every reason to believe you," Dean sneered, fist itching to hit something - anything. Castiel made a small murmur beside him and he stilled him with a look, shaking his head at the angel to indicate his pleasure or displeasure was not needed for this conversation.

"Look, I should have said something," Sam placated, his desperation oozing through the line. "I'm _sorry_, okay? But you've got to see the other _side_ here - the bigger picture."

"The other _side_, Sam?"

"I'm pulling _demons_ from innocent people -"

"Use the knife, Sam!"

"The knife kills the _victim_! What I'm doing - it's...I'm saving _lives_, Dean." Pleadingly, begging for understanding.

The problem was Dean understood all too well and was still sickened at how they had both been tricked, both been used - falling on their own respective swords with smiles on their faces, as they begged for more.

"That what Ruby want you to think - that what she told you when she tricked you into using your powers?" Dean demanded, ignoring how Castiel's eyebrows climbed into his hairline with that tidbit of information.

'_And lying to me about it?_'

The last went unspoken, but was heard loud and clear anyway, Sam's exasperation and need to be _right_ overriding all thought, all restraint on his mouth.

"I'm sorry I lied to you, Dean, I _am_ - you wanna take a swing? You wanna take it out on me? Fine. But man - I've saved more lives in the last few _months_, than we have the last few _years_!"

"And then why, _exactly,_ do you need me, again?" Dean asked quietly. "To rub it in, Sam? To show me to my face that a promise made to me is worth nothing when I'm rotting in my grave?"

There was no anger behind it, but Sam reacted like there was, his answers shocked out of him as sure as if Dean had taken a cattle prod to his ass.

"You weren't _here_, Dean. You were, you were _gone - _and..." Sam sniffled on the other end of the line, clearing his throat quietly. "And I? I was _here_, dude. What was I suppose to _do_?"

Dean jolted in his seat, memory swamping him as he recalled what got them into this mess in the first place -

_What am I suppose to __**DO**__?_

- sorrow washing through him as he realized that he had no real room to judge here. They had both gone against what they knew to be right.

But the difference was (the main difference) was that Sam hadn't stopped when Dean came back - and he had never intended to. He hadn't even _told_ him and had never intended to do that, either.

Then he'd had the balls to act like it was a no brainer, that he was never going to be caught.

And the look on his face when he _was_...

Dean's gut clenched again, the greasy ball turning cold and sour, a taste like cordite and blood flooding the back of his throat. He was helpless and he knew it. Sam wasn't going to stop - it was only going to get worse and worse until they could no longer see each other for the lies and secrets on both sides. He closed his eyes, wishing he could block out his thoughts as he saw two futures unmapping before him, both so fucking bleak, so depressing - but only one was possible. He wouldn't be able to live with the other, he couldn't let Sam live with it either. He had to wake him up, shake some sense into him.

"It's a slippery slope, Sammy - you've got to know that. It's just gonna get darker and _darker_ - and before you know it, it's gonna go too far -"

"I won't let it get too far, Dean," Sam protested. "I've _got_ this, I can -"

"It's _already_ gone to far!" Dean exploded, enraged that while Sam could be so damned smart, he could also be so damned _stupid_ at times. "Sam, if I didn't _know_ you...if I _didn't_...I would wanna _hunt_ you. And so would other hunters!"

"What I'm doing, it...it _works_ - it saves _lives_," Sam plowed on stubbornly, determined to make Dean hear him.

Dean heard him alright.

Heard that no matter what, he wasn't going to stop. That none of this mattered, that Dean was wasting his time, was wasting _Sam's_ time by arguing it out with him. He had one last shot at this, one last way to try to fix this mess before it all slid to Hell, but he knew it was going to be a long shot. He knew what he had to do in the end, he knew how it was going to play out - but like the dumbass Sam believed him to be, he had to try to make him see reason before he shot everything they were to shit once and for all.

"Tell me - if it's so great, why'd you _lie_ to me about it, huh? Why did an _angel_ send me to stop you?" Dean whispered, that same angel jumping in his seat, startled at being called out to Sam.

"An...an angel? _What_?" Sam blurted, sounding bewildered and a little guilty. "So that's what you meant in that note? _That's_ why you wrote that...that -"

"Yeah, Sammy," Dean replied, voice defeated as he thought how futile that note was, how futile this whole conversation was. "Look...it doesn't - it doesn't matter anymore -"

"It _does_! It _does_ Dean, I don't _understand_ -" Sam begged, voice raw. "Help me understand! I mean, what the _fuck_, man?"

Dean laughed bitterly, swiping a shaking hand down his face as he fought to control his emotions, rage warring with fear for top slot as he slumped in the Rams drivers seat, knowing he had to end this, he had to push Sam down the right path because he was too weak to guide him. He knew that now. If he went back - if he just _accepted_ all this mess and returned to his brother, this merry-go-round of horror would never end.

"Then what have we been _arguing_ about, Sam?" Dean barked letting his exasperation run his mouth for him. "You know what? Do what you wanna do, you're going to anyway - "

"The _fuck_, Dean?" Sam rasped, startled by the sudden turnaround.

"You know," Dean plowed on, ignoring his outburst (and ignoring the glare that Castiel was shooting his way), _knowing_ he was going to inflict permanent damage and helpless to stop himself. Either Sam was going to continue on his kamikaze path, taking a whole bunch of people with him or maybe (and this was Dean's hope) he would find a new one, even if it was without him. _Especially_ if it was without him. All Dean was sure of in the end, was that he could barely hold _himself_ together. As selfish as that was and as much of an asshole that made him, he knew he truly didn't have the strength to hold them both together - so maybe it was best if he continued to hold them apart. "If I had known that that was all it would take, just waving pussy at you to get you to fall in line, I would have done that _years_ ago. Oh wait - I _tried_ - too bad it just wasn't the right kind, am I right or am I right?"

"_Dammit_, Dean -" Sam hollered, fury starting to rise in his tone and he realized that he was being pushed, but was unsure why. "I don't know what the _fuck_ you think you're pulling -"

"You _are_ fucking her, right? I mean she's fucking _you_, so it's only logical you return the favor -"

"It's not _like_ that -" Sam cut in, frothing rage mixing with bewilderment and hurt. Dean was switching off too fast for him to track and he could hear Sam's gears scrambling to catch up with it all. "I swear to _God_, it's not -"

"Then what _is_ it like, Sam? I mean - what is it with you and bangin' _monsters_, man? And you wanna know what the icing on the fucking cake is? The real friggin' _kicker_? This is the same bitch who lied to your face for over a year - to your fucking _face_, Sammy! Or have you conveniently forgotten that part?"

Sam made an enraged choking noise, too flabbergasted to reply - which only left Dean with more of an opening to drive this burning truck through.

"But really, I guess I should be more understanding," he laughed, switching tactics (again) midstride, each word cutting deep in his own heart, so he could just imagine what this was doing to Sam. How crazy he must sound as he spewed every hurt, every fear that he had harbored for the past day and a half, hell - for the past _month_ - like razors into his brother's waiting ear, each word meant to cut, to burn, to _wound_. After all, why not utilize his talents? He went from being Daddy's blunt little instrument to being Alistair's razor, didn't he? As far as the world was concerned - as far as _Sam_ was concerned - that was all he was good for, _right_? So why the fuck _not_?

"I mean when _ordinary_ pussy just won't cut it, why not go for broke? All Ruby has to do is wave what she passes off for girl parts in your face and you fall right in, damn the consequences! If I had known all these years that this was all it would take, I would've made you bff with a demon a long time ago! Oh wait - I pretty much already _did_ that, didn't I? I mean, I swapped spit with one to haul you back to life and went to Hell without even a _handjob _to go with that demon tongue, while you let this bitch rattle your fucking cage - but who _gives_ a fuck, right?"

"Dean, _you_...the _**fuck**_...you _fucking_ -" Sam was incoherent with rage and pain, gasping for breath on the other end of the line as each word landed like a punch to his solar plexus. Castiel has stiffened in his seat, shoulders ridged as he watched Dean verbally destroy his brother - all in the hopes he might be able to save him. Dean could see that he didn't dare interfere, but even such a creature as him (cold, aloof, uncaring) could see what was happening.

"I mean, _I_ ain't no good to you, right? You're saving _lives_! More than we've saved in _years_! So you go on, Sammy. Do what you wanna do, little brother. You'll do that whether I'm there or not anyhow. Why hang around and be a reminder for why you left this life in the _first_ place? I mean, since _I_ ain't fucking you in any way...you got Ruby for that all round - what possible fucking use would I be? All _I_ can be is the asshole you sneak past at night to go play emohunter with a fucking _demon_. Well I'm done you hear me? You do what you wanna do, I'm out - the world can fucking _burn_ for all of me -"

"_Fuck_ you," Sam grated breathlessly, the sound too wet and ragged for him to be doing anything other than crying. "Fuck you _and_ the goddamned high-horse you rode in on!"

"Right back at ya, sweetheart," Dean returned cheerfully, knowing that the smarmy endearment alone would leave Sam apoplectic with fury. "Me and my high-horse are gonna be elsewhere - but you watch for my angel-buddies alright? They just might do the job that I fucked two years ago -"

"How can you fucking _say_ this shit to me?" Sam hissed, and yeah, he was crying - he was crying and he sounded long past screaming, long past rage, it seemed. Dean's heart squeezed in his chest, everything in him screaming for him to stop it, to take it back, to heal his brother's pain - but he held on tight. This was all he had left, this was all he could give even as cruel as it was. He just hoped that his words did what he himself could not. He hoped that they pulled Sam back from that ledge, that they snapped him back into being _Sam_ - instead of some demonic whore's puppet-boy.

"Easy as pie, little brother," Dean retorted, voice menacing as he fired off his last salvo, knowing that it was over before it began - but also praying that it would keep Sam from looking for him, for seeking out someone who would hurt him so goddamned badly."You be good, now - or I'm sure my angel pals will be wanting to talk to you. Their damned dirty work, anyway, right? I mean, I _obviously_ rank below anything Ruby says or does - so you just keep following that little fine piece of ass if that's what gets you to sleep at night. Maybe she'll lead you straight to Hell on it. And hey - when you get there, tell 'em hi from me, will ya? Tell 'em ol' Dean-o misses the home fucking fires that burn -"

"I'm sure you'll be able to tell them that yourself," Sam fired back, wanting to hurt Dean as badly as he had been hurt - and yeah, it hit its mark.

"I'm sure I will, little brother," Dean returned softly. "Goodbye, Sammy."

He snapped the phone closed with one smooth, practiced motion, giving into his rage and pain as he crushed it in his fist, the satisfying pop and crunch of metal and plastic relieving the hollowed out feeling that had bloomed within him from the moment he realized who was on the line. Shit, he knew even _before_ then, but that voided, washed out, faded, depressed feeling just followed in with the total realization that he couldn't fix it. He could never fix it - hell, the _old_ Dean couldn't fix it. The old Dean probably would have been dumb enough to just sit back and watch it happen - the Winchester version of sticking your fingers in your ears and humming.

He made a small pained noise as he disintegrated the phone against the granite curl of his fingers, smiling in angry satisfaction as shards of plastic embedded themselves into his palm, ultra thin wires of metal slicing along his fingers and sticking where they lodged. The phone itself letting out a protesting whine as a call came through and was summarily rejected by the way of Dean's rage. The sounds becoming thin and warbling before bleating out altogether in a buzzing screech, the speakers coming apart under the next crushing assault, his blood leaking bright and comforting from the cradle of his hand to patter designs across his thighs, the jeans absorbing the thick liquid eagerly.

Castiel sat silent, as quiet and unblinking now as he had been during the whole exchange with Sam, blue eyes smouldering in angry surprise as he watched Dean's blood well across the cup of his hand, overflowing onto his jeans, the angel actively struggling to distance himself from the whole situation, to make himself the wounded party. Dean chuckled at the thought of Castiel and his wounded morals, his self-righteousness offended, his surety now skewed and scattered.

"You should not have done that," Castiel protested, waffling between dignity, anger and dismay. "That was foolish and will drive your brother straight into the arms of darkness."

Dean found his choice of words funny, but the context of them even funnier as they were rumbled in a monotonous sing-song, Castiel's miffed tone almost screaming sanctimonious, prudish old lady.

"Might - might not...I won't be around to find out." Dean shrugged, visibly shaking off the fascination his own blood held as it ran a chaotic, meandering stream down his wrist. He let what was left of the phone fall into his lap, wincing as the pieces embedded in his hand flexed and dug in with each movement. "Though I'm sure you'll keep an eye on him for me, since you are so keen on his well-being."

"Dean," the angel whispered, sorrow (or a good facsimile thereof) hollowing his cheeks. "You are my Charge - as much as I would like to help Sam..."

Castiel shifted his shoulders in what might have been a shrug, the grayness of the angel's bewildered hurt seeping into the gray of Dean's soul, tainting him further with yet another creature's despair and disappointment. He looked to Dean as Sammy had when he was small, asking him with his eyes to make it better, to soothe the hurt and confusion away.

Dean was again stunned with the idea of how very _young_ Castiel was in the grand scheme of things. Earth and its inhabitants seemed too new to him, his own brethren seemed foreign to the angel as memories of his rescue played through his head. The other angelic host were at ease with themselves, sure of their roles - their banter so close to what you would hear on an ordinary street, on any average day it was startling. Castiel seemed lost in that respect. Slang went over his head, terms of endearment were met with a blank look - even the simplest of emotions seemed to rattle him. He was an odd, alien thing, but Dean could see how he would have normally taken Castiel under his wing, protected him from those who would hurt him (even if they were his own kind), seeing a creature he would be proud to call a friend, to call _family_. But these were no ordinary circumstances - and the Dean that would have done all those things was long dead.

Or at least...he _hoped_ he was.

"Castiel," he began carefully, sure that if Sam was going to try to locate him, now would be the time - and he had sat still too long. Even if Sam wasn't (and frankly after that conversation, he certainly hoped he _wouldn't_ try to find him) he had still been here too long. It was time to move on, to start fresh - and Castiel was another potential friend, another person he would have to lose. He smiled softly at the angel he would have liked to have called 'friend', his change in demeanor immediately setting Castiel on alert, his manner wary, suspicious.

He _could_ make sure that the two he lost weren't lonely. And maybe, just maybe, his actions would set Sam further on the right path again.

He knew Sam would take Castiel in, make him one of their own - even if Dean Winchester was the Enemy's name on their lips. He could make that happen, he would _make_ that happen -

Call it a tribute to the man who went to Hell for his brother.

"Cas -"

"Dean, what are you -" Castiel started to say, but was cut off when Dean next spoke.

"I Charge you," Dean began, heart twisting at the stricken, almost betrayed look that Castiel gave him. "I Task you to look after Sam as if he were your own brother."

"Dean - you have no idea what you are asking," Castiel rasped, looking as frightened as a creature like him could. "You have no idea what you are laying upon me -"

"I think I do. You saved me and yet somehow - you are in my debt, correct?" Dean asked gently, feeling sorry for Castiel as he writhed inside his borrowed skin, knowing the dangerous territory he was treading by even asking such a question.

"That is...that is correct."

"Then I Charge you, Castiel, Angel of Sorrows, to take up this Task - do you accept?" Dean asked formally, knowing that it would compel Castiel, a being of rules and structure, to answer.

"I...I," Castiel pleaded with his eyes for Dean to remove his Task, to remove the binding that Castiel would be forced to accept just by the debt he owed alone.

He accepted his bond with Dean on the Charge of his Brethren, awed and pleased to be granted such a Task. But this Charge, while not severing that bond, would hinder it - muddy the metaphorical waters and split his loyalties. His loyalty was always first and foremost to his Father and His Father's Host - but Dean came next. His Charge of Dean could rival even the loyalty he held to Heaven - and for a Charge to lay _down_ a Charge...well - it was unheard of, but it could be done. And he was left with no choice but to answer it as it was asked.

"I accept," the angel whispered. " I take up Your Task and accept the Charge. My Debt is now repaid."

Castiel sounded regretful, like he was sorry to lay aside the debt that he owed Dean, whereas Dean could feel nothing but relief. He would soon owe no one - and now, no one owed him. He could start over, take his own Charge given to him by Birch and fulfill it, all the balances set for him to try to find out what he was besides Dean Winchester, brother to Sam, son of John, former hunter, protector, guardian and watchdog.

"I ask only one more thing before you go, Cas," Dean said kindly, giving the angel an out if he needed one.

"Anything," Castiel replied.

Dean flinched at his response, smile flickering to a brief grimace before relaxing back into that soothing twist of his lips - a smile he would often give Sammy when things didn't always go the way they were suppose to (in Sam's eyes). When Sam was _Sammy_, when he was still small and still Dean's baby brother - when Dean was still a superhero.

"Take this with you," Dean said, pulling the new sim card he has swapped the original for over 24 hours ago in a rest stop bathroom from the wreckage that was once a cellphone, holding it out to Castiel. "Oh - and always be careful who you say _'anything'_ to, Cas...some people would take that as an invite to hurt you."

"I knew that you would not," the angel replied, though his eyes called him a liar. Somehow, Dean _had_ hurt him - and he would just have to add that to the tally he had to work through over the next few months.

He had a lot to make up for on the karmic scale - what was one more?

"Castiel?"

The angel looked up at him, the sim card having disappeared into the folds of his trench-coat, his whole being shrinking in on itself as Dean called him by his proper name.

"Thank you."

"For what?" Castiel asked, sounding almost human for the first time since Dean had met him.

"For taking the Charge, for trying to understand - for raising me from Perdition. I know I failed you and I'm...I'm sorry, but I have no choice here? Do you see that?"

"I see that _you_ see things that way," the angel offered generously. " As for the rest, I can only say 'you're welcome' and extend my thanks in return."

Castiel bowed his head in Dean's direction and with a final whir of wings, Dean was alone with his stolen truck, a lap full of drying blood, a lacerated hand, a broken cellphone and a duffle filled with the arcane objects of a Hunter (and a Charge by one Mr 'Twig' Birch Collins).

When he looked down at his hand to assess the damage and extent of his patch-up job for his little temper fit, he was surprised to find the cuts gone, not even any pink tissue left behind, his fingers and palm whole and grinned in pride.

The angel was sneaky, he'd give him that.

He wiped down the interior of the cab again (half-grateful he hadn't bled everywhere) giving the keys a cursory wipe as well before putting them in the visor overhead.

He had a trucker or two to ask a favor from.

**0-0-0**

_"You always have the best stories, Dean. I wish some of them never ended."_

_"Every story has an ending, Sammy - some of them don't have the ending we want, but everything ends."_

_"Except for our story, ours hasn't ended yet."_

_"No - and hopefully it won't end for a long time, dude. But one day, even our story will end."_

_"Will it be a happy ending, d'ya think?"_

_"I dunno, Sammy," softly, as if the merest jarring noise will break the fragile hope of that innocent question. "Only time will tell." _

**0-0-0**

**12:32PM**

"_God_, Bobby, why did I say that?" Sam gasped, voice muffled as he tried to hide the tears behind his hands, whole body shaking with exhaustion and pain. "I mean, I just...just told my brother to go to Hell - I told him..."

He fought to breathe, trying to keep himself from breaking down again while Bobby hovered quietly near his shoulder, wanting to pat him comfortingly, but unsure of just how that gesture would be received right now. Everything just went sideways and even Singer was having a difficult time comprehending how it got there - much less how to fix it. All he could do was take it one step at a time, one Winchester at a time - and since he had one here, might as well start with getting him calm, getting his hurt to ease, get him to think.

"Sounds like he said his fair share of awful things, Sam," Bobby hedged, knowing that he would either get the young man to see sense or drive him into another fit of anger. "I mean, when you told me some of the things he said to you, I just...it _confused_ me, I wonder if -"

"No," Sam said quietly, scrubbing one hand over the tracks on his face as he gave a weary stretch of his shoulders. "No, he isn't possessed. That was - that was all Dean. Granted, he's never talked to me like that before - usually when we argue, _I'm_ more inclined to say things I'll regret later. But...I don't think - I don't think he's going to regret it. It was almost as if -"

"He was pushing you," Bobby said gruffly, sitting on the other bed with a tired flop. "Yeah...yeah - that's what it sounds like. The only alternative besides that is possession. Just can't see him saying those things without it being one or t'other, you know?"

He finally risked being snarked at and leaned forward to lay a comforting hand on Sam's shoulder, knowing that sometimes the slightest touch grounded Sam, made him able to think more clearly. Sam relaxed under his fingers and gave him a grateful smile. Though tears still shone in his eyes and the smile was wobbly, he looked like he was doing better, he was coming to accept what had happened. Moving past it though was another matter. Sam was like a dog with a bone when he got the notion and Bobby was sure this situation would be no different.

That determined gleam was starting to rekindle across the span of his features, his brow furrowed in thought, one hand drifting to grip the hair on the side of his head as he distanced himself to work the conversation through, to get a handle on the facts as he knew them.

"Yeah...that wasn't anything but deliberate, Bobby. The question is, _why_? Why did he run in the first place? Why is he so set on staying away?"

"Maybe what he saw -"

Sam paused, wriggling uncomfortably at the memory.

It was bad enough that Dean had caught him exorcising a demon in the first place - that's what landed him in this mess. But when Bobby came back from Birch's doorstep with zip in the 'finding Dean' slot, he forced Sam to spill the beans on why they were chasing him all over Hell's Half-Acre anyway. Sam had only been able to stall as long as it took them to get this hotel room (which was, ironically, five miles away from the hotel room that this whole nightmare started in), but Bobby was having none of it. Sam had begged him to head home, to forget it - he would find Dean himself - but Bobby was invested..and curious. Sam knew a stubborn Winchester was a force to be reckoned with, but a stubborn Singer was a close second.

They had whisper-argued all the way into the room, but with nowhere to go, no other allies he could trust (and hell, it was _Bobby_) he finally told the whole story, beginning to end, leaving nothing out. Bobby had hit the roof, five levels of atmosphere and the moon. Singer wasn't a stupid man - he knew what it all meant. This was what Sam had left his house for in the first place after Dean died. He ditched Bobby and took up with the same demon that had strung him along for a whole year before leaving him writhing in his grief. He hollered about 'the bitch's' convenient timing, how she was trying to get him hooked on demon blood (yeah, Sam told him about that too) like it was a drug, and then get him hooked on his powers which obviously were a drug. Had to be if he'd lie about it - had to be if he _hid_ what he could do.

Basically, he and Bobby had just had the same conversation that he and Dean did - only with less yelling (well, on Sam's part) and fewer jabs thrown in. The talk with Bobby was more Sam talked, Bobby listened (and after going ballistic for a few minutes) and had heard him out completely. He even agreed that Sam's powers could be a good thing, that he was doing something good with it (though hiding what he was doing was a tally on the minus side there) - but he agreed with Dean that it could be a slippery slope.

'_Road to Hell, Sam_ -' he had said in his rough, but kindly way - before it was back to the debate.

The debate they had still been in the middle of when Sam's call had finally rung through, (the calls being an almost constant for the last several hours) startling Singer to silence and getting Sam's heart to thump sideways within his chest. Bobby had excused himself quietly to go get a coke while Sam talked to his brother, so he missed the call completely, though he was sure the two boys would be able to get it worked out - if anyone could patch up quick and find a way to heal together, the Winchester brothers could.

Too bad it had all gone to shit very, very quickly. Sam let his temper get the better of him and before he knew it, the call was over. One second Dean was spitting venom, his manner uncaring, cold even - and the next he's saying 'Goodbye, Sammy' in that way that always meant, '_I'm sorry_' and '_I love you_' all at once (like only Dean could say it) and all that did was make Sam cry harder. He knew right then, the very second he had heard those parting words accompanied by a soft click in his ear that it was over, that finding Dean would be damned near impossible.

Didn't mean he'd stop trying though.

"No...no that's not it. Not _completely_. It was like this just all...snowballed out of control, you know? I think seeing me - seeing me do what I do may have been the last straw, but it wasn't what made him run - not really."

"Were you able to -"

"Track his cell? No - ran the sim card and I've got the computer working on a location now, but I think he's got it shut off. I tried to call back and zilch, nada, nothing." Sam took a deep shaky breath, trying to smile again but failing as he leaned to one side to check the laptop's progress, the machine churning busily at its task as the two men talked. "Started all that before you came back to find me a total wreck."

"It's okay son, think I'd be a bit of a wreck, too. You know what this means though -"

"Yeah," Sam sighed, trying to fight the hopeless feeling that made him want to burrow under the covers until the world went away. "Means we're right back to square one."

"Well, it will give us the opportunity to look at this from different angles now - instead of just chasing five steps behind him, or chasing our tails," Bobby rumbled reassuringly, giving Sam's shoulder another squeeze before lurching to his feet. Sam swiped at his face again, sniffling back a few tears that tried to fight their way through and gave him a watery smile.

"So..." he started, hesitantly.

"So," Bobby returned, giving his own watery smile and hoping he didn't look as old as he felt (Damned Winchesters). "How about we get some grub, get some shut-eye and head back to my place to brainstorm a little."

"Sounds like a plan," Sam replied, trying to put more oopmh in his grin. "Just need to check the - what the hell?"

"What?" Bobby asked, tensing at the 'uh-oh' tone in Sam's voice. "What's going on?"

"That's what I'd like to know," Sam rasped, sounding more than a little panicked. "Remember how I said I still had the computer searching for Dean's cell?"

"Yeah - you said it was a long-shot but that it wouldn't hurt to try," Bobby recalled, slightly confused at why Sam's eyes were wide, lips white as he hunched over the computer - but concluding that it was nine kinds of not-good. "So what's the problem - did it find him?"

"Uhhh, I guess you could say that," Sam breathed, taking two steps back from the machine and looking over his shoulder at Singer, eyes still too round for his liking. "More like _it_ is finding _us_ -"

"What in Sam Hill is _that_ suppose to -" Bobby started to retort (feeling more than a little panicked himself now) but unable to complete the thought out loud as everything in the room swayed slightly, the deafening rustle of a thousand birds' wings exploding through the small confines of their shabby hotel room. Both men backed up instinctively as another man appeared in their midst, his whole being singing power and grace as he just melted into reality out of nowhere, his eyes skimming Singer (sparking recognition as they passed him over) before landing on Sam. The youngest Winchester shuddered under the icy calm of that gaze, his mouth dropping open to speak, though words just seemed to die on his lips before they could ever meet the air. Bobby didn't seem to have that problem though.

"What the - it's _you_!" Singer choked out, looking right next door to having a heart attack as he caught Sam's eyes for a brief few seconds with his own. "You're -"

"Castiel," the man said in an eerie monotone, his voice ringing with restrained sound as his whole body tilted in Sam's direction. Sam looked stricken, awed as the creature looked him over, the scrutiny making him want to squirm even as he wished to speak, to introduce himself to the angel that had saved his brother, to profess his gratitude and explain his failures all at once.

Castiel tilted his head at him, face softening as he took in the young man's internal struggle, silencing his wish to speak with a slow, deliberate shake of his head.

"Do not be afraid, Sam Winchester. I am Castiel, an Angel of the Lord. It was I who gripped your brother tight and raised him from Perdition - and I come to you Charged by your brother to watch over you."

All Bobby and Sam could do was stare, frozen by shock at his announcement, neither really sure whether to speak or not, their next series of actions now thrown into a complete muddle by the presence of the angel in the middle of the room.

"I bring a token from him, to assure you that I am not here to harm you," Castiel continued mildly (though neither man had enough wits to even think far enough ahead to Castiel being there with evil intent, angel or no). He reached into his pocket as he spoke, eyes still boring into Sam's as he opened his fist to reveal the object nestled gently on his palm. "I have been Charged and must answer. My task is to see you through your own Perdition, Sam Winchester - and see you through it I will."

Sam gulped, confused and rattled by Castiel's statements, unsure of what to ask, unsure of what to say. He finally registered that Castiel was holding his hand out to him and gathered the courage to wrench his eyes away from the angel's face long enough to see what he held in his hand (barely registering the soft gasp from Bobby on his right) not really surprised when he found focus enough to recognize it for what it was -

The sim card to Dean's cellphone.


	13. Chapter 13

**Perspectives**

**Epilogue**

**Finis**

**'A Million Sad Stories**'

_**To the end of the Earth, I'll search for your face - For the one who laid all of our beauty to waste - Threw our hope into Hell and our children into the fire - I am the one who crawled through the wire, I am the one who crawled through the wire**_**  
**_** -**_** Patty Griffin**

**4 Days Later... **

Dean stepped out of the tattoo shop, wincing as he rearranged his shirt over his chest, pulling at the fabric over his right shoulder. He stopped to shade his eyes, making sure his ride was still out front, before pulling out his new cellphone, scrolling until he hit Birch's number, one of the first he had put in. Out of habit he still had Bobby and Sam's numbers inside, and found he hesitated every time he made a call, thumb hovering just over the send button, an almost physical ache to hear their voices taking over each time. It was hard - harder than he had ever dreamed possible to just drop all contact with his old life, but he hoped it would get easier as time went on. Maybe one day he would even be able to delete those numbers out of his cellphone - but he couldn't imagine it happening any time soon, no matter what he told himself.

The call went through amazingly fast and he smiled as Birch barked out a greeting, one of his dogs going nuts in the background as he hollered a hello into the phone.

"Hey Birch!" Dean half-yelled, hoping the older man could hear him over his mutt.

"Dean! Shaddup, Digger, ya damned mutt - it's just the phone! Sorry 'bout that, there, Winchester - thinks every time the phone rings the damned house is gonna burn down or somethin' - so...you got it?"

"That I did - called to apologize for taking so long, though -"

"Ahh, don't worry about that there, son - take your time. Hope Nathan was kind to you."

"He was," Dean chuckled, smiling at the memory of a mini-Birch (much younger mind you) hustling him into the adobe house, bitching about the heat and dehydration and '_Take a load off there, boy - my uncle said you was droppin'_ _by_' with that Western twang that had Dean grinning in seconds. His son though - he hadn't been happy to see Dean at all. "Don't think Allen liked me all that much though."

"Don't really care what that brat thinks," Birch returned smoothly, a creaking sound ringing over the phone as he sat with a sigh. "Kinda glad you'll be taking care of that machine - Allen'd just tear her up anyhow. Nathan understands, I'm sure."

"Yeah, he was a real nice guy, Twig - wouldn't let me leave without feeding me and giving me about a gallon of tea, though." Dean laughed.

"Yeah, that's Nathan for ya - always was a fusser. Did he make you nap, too?"

"Yeah! For about four hours! Insisted on it - even had the guest room all done up and everything," Dean mused fondly. "Then he made me eat again before he let me go, swear I weighed about two tons before I hauled ass, but it was worth it - that sweet tea was awesome!"

"Well, he's a good boy - had to be since Tina died, but it helps when the foundation has already been laid, you know? By the way, Thomas is just as nice a boy - 'course, I'm not prejudiced or nothin' -"

"Nooo, of course not," Dean grinned, slipping on his sunglasses and stepping out from under the awning that declared '_Desert Eagle Artwerks:_ _Unique, Designer Tattoos While You Wait!_' "I'm just hoping he won't worry on why I'm taking so long - had some ahhhh, things I had to take care of, you know?"

He could hear the 'Pshaw' in Twig's voice as he replied, another creaking noise and the sound of a dog grumbling in the background.

"You take all the time you need there, Dean - he's not really expecting you for another week at the outside, you know? After all, he grew up with Nathan," Birch rasped out a chuckle and Dean could almost see his eyes crinkling at the corners. He was hit with the wish to see the old man again and was surprised by how much he missed him already - he had spent less that twelve hours with Birch, but it felt like he had known him for years. "He's gonna be surprised you managed to get away with only a four hour nap, a gallon of tea and two meals! Actually, I think he'll be _impressed_!"

Dean laughed with him a moment, contemplating the vending machine advertising ice cold cokes two stores down, before dismissing it - the last thing he needed was all that sugar and caffeine. Would get him more thirsty than he was already, the heat index through the roof already before it even hit eleven am.

"Did...did you get any visitors, Twig?" he asked, suddenly serious and slightly anxious.

"Yup...yup I did - was the next mornin' as a matter of fact. Good thing I get up real early most days -"

"_Man_...I was afraid of that. I'm sorry, Twig -"

"Nothin' to be sorry about, boy - you did warn me that it might happen. Looks like they were a little slower than you anticipated though."

"Thank goodness for that," Dean breathed, feeling a twinge in his chest as he recalled his last conversation with Sam. His one regret was that he didn't get to say goodbye to Bobby. He owed the man so much more than that - he was like a father to them, even before John died. "Hope they didn't cause too much hassle for you."

"Nope, Bobby was real polite - has that Fed act down, too. Threw me for a loop I tell ya...it was, kind of nice to meet him, even though I had to send him away with a flea in his ear."

"Thank you, Twig, you didn't have to do that," Dean said quietly, reaching to scrub a hand through his hair until the pulling ache near his right shoulder reminded him that that wasn't such a hot idea.

"'Course I did," the old man gruffed. "Gotta get that package to Thomas now, dontcha'?"

"Yeah...yeah would kinda be a problem if they caught me before I could do that," Dean smiled, though it was more of a sad smile than a real one. "If he calls or you call him, let Thomas know I should be there within the next few days, okay? Got a few more loose ends to tie up and then I'm set. The next time you talk to me you'll be talking to Jonathon Samuel Smith."

"Good name," Birch returned thoughtfully. "Gonna kinda miss Dean, though."

"Ohhh, he'll still be there - just...with a different moniker. Nothing new to me, really - had to change my name a lot with my old gig."

"At least he'll still be around," Birch replied. His next words were hesitant, almost regretful, but he spit them out like they needed to be said, his tone registering discomfort, but not for himself. "I didn't...I didn't see Sam, though - guess they figured it'd be too much of a giveaway. I'm...I'm real sorry, Dean - I hope that _someday_, you know? I just -"

"I know, Twig," Dean returned softly, feeling warm that Birch cared enough to worry about his feelings, but sad that he couldn't seem to let go as cleanly as he'd hoped. "It's okay old man - maybe one day, but...but not now. It's for the best - it really is. I wish I could say that I'm keeping them away just for me, you know? But I'm not - I'm not _good_ for him right now. I have to protect my brother - I always have and I hoped I always would, but the best way to protect him right now is to keep him as far from me as possible. I've - I've done things..._terrible_ things - and I just don't want him caught up in it. I wish I could just say I was being a coward, that I am afraid of him finding out - I mean, I _know_ he will, maybe sooner than I'd thought - but just being around him...it seems to drive him further down the wrong path, you understand? I can't...I can't do that to him. Letting him go is so damned hard and -"

He paused, taking in ragged breath after ragged breath, hoping he wouldn't break down in the middle of an Arizona street, bawling his eyes out over something he really couldn't control. He was just so overwhelmed with missing Sam and Bobby and so disappointed in himself, he really had no idea what to do anymore. This above all, told him he was doing the right thing. If he could barely keep _himself_ together, how could he keep his brother from doing the wrong thing? All he could hope was that Bobby and Castiel would do what he couldn't. As for himself? Only time would tell - it might take a long while, he knew he could never completely forgive himself, maybe the nightmares and the awful wants would fade after time, though he knew that none of it would ever truly go away. He just needed to get a handle on it before _it_ got a handle on _him_.

"I'm sorry, boy," Twig rasped, sounding near tears himself. "I shouldn't of...I'm sorry -"

"No - no Twig, don't be sorry. I'm...I kind of wish you could have met Sam - _truly_ met him. He's...he's a good guy, you know? He really is - better than his brother could ever be. I think...I think you would have liked him."

"I probably would have," Twig said, voice thoughtful. "Better than his brother...that's be a neat trick right there. But that tells me I woulda liked him just fine, anyhow. You're a good man, Dean - no matter what you tell yourself. You just remember that for me, okay? And keep in touch. An old man gets bored easily when he has nothin' better t'do than sit on his ass all day."

Dean laughed slightly, almost relieved when the yo-yo of emotions tapered off a bit. It was another thing he hadn't gotten used to yet that could only be solved by time.

"I'll be sure to do that, Twig - take good care of Digger and Raymond. I'll probably call you in a few days, okay?"

"Alright, Dean - til then, take good care of my girl - and yourself. I'll tell Thomas to expect you in a few."

"Thanks old man."

"Anytime, punk," Birch countered happily, then the call cut out with a muted click.

Dean closed the phone slowly before sliding it into his front pocket, eyes still on the Coke machine just a few feet to his left.

'_Fuck it_,' he though semi-tiredly. '_If _anybody_ deserves a coke and a fucking smile_ -'

He dug a dollar out of his new wallet (ID proudly declaring him to be Jon Smith from Bixby, Arizona) feeding the crisp, fresh bill into the machine, pleased when he got an old-fashioned bottled Coke for the buck, popping the cap against the opener on the side of the machine before taking a healthy slug.

"Gahhh," he declared happily, blinking back tears from the carbonation. "_Man_, they don't make 'em like they used to! Does taste better out of a glass bottle."

He drank it slowly, knowing it would do more harm than good to drink something that cold and syrupy too fast in the rising heat, squinting even through his sunglasses at the hot sun beating down on him from overhead while actively keeping his hands away from his chest where his new tattoo burned and itched under the gauze padding. It hadn't been fun to get a tat last time he needed one - and this time was no different. Not that it hurt to get one, that was a cakewalk - it was the careful treatment for the next few weeks after. He had to be especially careful with this one - one little fuck up while it was healing and he'd have to do it all over again.

The last few days had been a little busy. Besides having to get ahold of the info for the tattoo itself, he had been going through all of his old P.O. Boxes, shutting them down and rerouting them to one he had opened in Bixby, his next stop over after Flagstaff. The new ID was a piece of cake, opening the new P.O. Box was a piece of cake. It was just having to hang around for a few days during the transport - all the while hoping that Sam didn't catch on to the closing of the old boxes and the reroute before the mail could get to Bixby.

It was a nerve-wracking few days (he never did well at sitting still too long, anyhow - something he'd have to get over and _soon_), but paying for Next Day Air for every piece was worth it all when he finally got the mail in his hands. He'd have to open another P.O. Box when he moved - that was, if he didn't have a mailbox of his own - but that was neither here nor there at the moment.

While he had waited he got busy shutting down his old cellphone and credit cards, making sure to withdraw as much money as he could get away with on all five before cutting them up and chucking them, calling the credit card companies to declare them stolen immediately afterwards. He wasn't too concerned about those in the end - sure they might be able to trace them to here and if anyone could, Sam could - but processing a claim for a stolen card on an account that was deactivated not too long after the claim was made takes time.

Normally, a company would balk at shutting down an account that still had money owed on it - but Dean knew how to play the sympathy card just enough to make it happen. Of course, that meant all that paperwork would just make everything that much slower - so by the time Sam caught wind of what was going on, Dean would have been gone from the area days, if not _weeks_ - no trace that he had ever been here in the first place.

It really only took one day to do all those things, but he made sure to lay low anyhow, his paranoia at getting caught increasing as he stayed in the same motel (the only one at the outskirts of town worth staying in) for more than 48 hours. But after he had withdrawn all that money (the limits on the cards being 500 or more) he had a pretty hefty sum to go on, so he paid cash for the room, cash for his new phone and cash for the tattoo when he went to get it done, so that cut down on his chances of being traced greatly, something that made it easier to breathe through in the end.

Really, the main reason he had waited so long on the mail wasn't the new card applications, licenses, letters from Ellen and Jo, or the occasional ritual sent by Bobby, it wasn't even for his monthly copy of Busty Asian Beauties. Which (he thought with a pang) he would have to drop - he would be way too easy to trace that way and how dumb would it be to be busted by your little brother because of your favorite porn? No, he had waited and spent way too long in this little podunk for one thing and one thing only - a small envelope from Joshua, an old friend of Dad's and Deacon's.

He had maybe spoken to Joshua three times since his Dad died - it had hurt too much to call one of the few men John had kept as a friend because of who he was and how he was, instead of in spite of it. Joshua had come to hunting a little before John, having stumbled across something in his nephew's cabin that just couldn't be explained away - and he and John had gone on quite a few hunts together when Dean and Sam were still growing up. He dabbled in a little bit of everything, hunting when he could and gathering lore when he could not - so besides Bobby Singer he was the next best thing to an authority on the supernatural.

When Dean had called (and endured the chewing out for not calling sooner when he had crawled out of his grave) two weeks back, he had asked Joshua a favor. His Dad's old friend had known how close Dean and John were and was always eager to help out when he could, which wasn't often because of his hardware business, but he did what he could in a pinch.

Dean hated to ask any favors of the man because it had been so long since that had actually spoken, not to mention met up - but Joshua insisted on trying anyway, saying he still owed John a few when he died - and Dean was practically a nephew, so no problem. He did ask why Dean didn't go through Bobby for what he wanted, but Dean didn't know how to tell him that while he loved Singer, trusted him with his life - he couldn't risk him accidentally spilling (or deliberately, if he was worried enough) what he was doing to Sam. Not until he was sure he had everything he needed. Joshua had put up with the lukewarm excuse and Dean could almost see him raising his hands in the air as he spoke as if to ward off something flying at his face, while asking Dean to give him a few days - he'd see what he could do.

_Shit_, Dean'd had nothing _but_ time on his hands, what with Sam sneaking out to do God knows what, an angel scrutinizing his every move and seals to protect, so he was almost caught off guard when Joshua called back a few days later when Sam was 'out' and told him to check his mail - and good luck, he hoped it worked. Dean had forgotten about it over the next few days while scrambling to keep the nightmares at bay, Sam close and Bobby arm's length - but he had remembered it while hitching the rest of the way to Arizona, nothing but time to think and not much else to do besides. He knew he'd have to shut everything down - but losing that information before he could check it out for himself (not to mention having Sam stumble across it) was just not feasible - not after all the trouble Joshua went to to get it. He collected the mail as soon as it had arrived, shutting down the box they had been mailed to, thus assuring that the only tie he had in this town was his hotel room, which he hustled off to with his treasures as soon as he could get away.

He had dumped the credit card applications and other detritus in the trash (holding onto the letters from Ellen, Jo and Bobby in case he could ever suck it up enough to look at them) disappointed that his subscription of Busty Asian Beauties had obviously run out (though that was one less thing to shut down when it was all over) and turned Joshua's letter over and over in his hands, too scared to get his hopes up, but too cornered to not believe that it held a solution to a lot of problems.

When he had crawled out of his own grave, he knew that trouble would follow. He may not be the genius Sam was, but he wasn't stupid, either. He was a Winchester plain and simple, _nothing_ was ever that damned easy - and being a Winchester he knew his troubles would be bigger than most. Before he knew what had pulled him out, he had been scared - and damn worried. There were quite a few creatures out there that would be unhappy that Dean Winchester had busted out of The Pit, and he held no illusions that quite a few would come gunning for his sweet ass and the sooner they could, they would.

Then there was the sticky problem of Castiel.

From everything the angel had said, he wasn't the only one out there - and he had a boss, same as most supernatural creatures. Why that boss had seen fit to pull Dean out, he had no idea, but he could bet that it wasn't good. When you spent your whole life as either a watchdog, bait, tool or a puppet - you got to read the signs pretty easily and he knew that he was in for no damned picnic. It felt too much like out of the frying pan and into another frying pan for his peace of mind, so he wanted insurance. Castiel scared him - the fact that Cas had a boss _terrified_ him - and he didn't want to be used only to be dumped right back where he started from.

Sooo...two problems that needed solving, hopefully both at the same time. He wanted to tell Sam his plans, tell him what he was looking for, but Sam had been so distant and dismissive, he wanted to wait until he actually had it in his hands before he said anything...if he ever did. Even when he was calling Joshua to ask for help, he had a feeling that Sam wouldn't appreciate his little solution to their demon/angel problem. Something deep inside had known something was wrong even then - and being halted or hindered just wasn't a risk he was willing to take.

Not that it was something he'd have to worry about, now.

He had sat there with the letter in his hands for a full fifteen minutes before he'd had the courage to open it, scared that it wouldn't work - scared that it would. But he finally took another slug of his whiskey and tore into the envelope, careful to not rip the paper that was inside. Besides the standard letter that went with (catching Dean up to what Joshua was doing, small chit-chat about hunts and wishes that Dean himself was doing okay) there was another small piece of paper with two sigils and a way to merge them, plus a ritual that had to be done to activate them. He also stated that the ritual could be done before Dean got inked, the combination of the blessed ink and his blood on his skin making it twice as strong - and permanent once the tat was completely healed.

Which meant it would work when it was done - but would work three _times_ as well once he'd had it on for a few weeks. Defacing it even then wouldn't stop the binding magick - something Dean was extra sure to stress that he needed, considering the work he used to do. It would be a pain to have to do the tattoo again and again - so something along the lines of the type of tattoo he and Sam had gotten done (with permanence placed within the spell-work) was just what he needed.

He had gotten the ingredients together that night and had done the spell, taking it to the tattoo shop the next morning and having both sigils inked exactly as he had shown them to the artist, one over the other, onto his chest. The artist hadn't blinked at the use of his own ink - or even the pattern he needed, just declaring it 'neat' and 'unique - just the way we like it' before promising to get it exact, as he was the best tattoo artist in the shop (and Dean was inclined to believe him from the work he had displayed on his section of the walls). He extracted a promise to never use the sign he was getting inked with on anyone else and refused to let the artist keep the paper for his records, or have a picture taken. The man had grumbled a bit, but was appeased with an extra hundred for a tip and Dean walked out (hurting a bit) sporting a fresh tat that kept him hidden from the eyes of demons and angels.

From what Joshua had written it acted as an all around shield - not only would he be hard to spot by either party (their eyes would just slide right over him) but hearing him or reading his thoughts would be damned near impossible, too. The only drawback would be if one of them got clever enough to look for where he _wasn't_ at - but the world was a pretty big haystack and he was just one piece of straw amongst millions. So until the day ever came about where angels or demons got wise to him all of a sudden, he had plenty of time to come up with a way to dodge Heaven and Hell altogether. It was cleaner and neater than hex bags (an idea he had thought up and then rejected almost immediately), required no dark magick and it was harder to lose a tat than a leather pouch tied around your neck.

All in all, given a few weeks, he'd be safe as houses - and in consequence, so would Sam. With Castiel and Bobby to watch his back and the bonus of having no big brother hanging around as a walking target for both sides, eventually the demons (and hopefully the angels) would lose interest, leaving Sam to do his job without fear of Heaven and Hell keeping a bead on him. Dean didn't mind the thought of demons and angels gunning for him now - he had insurance to back him up and a whole lot of miles he could cover in case they ever got wise to his play. So yeah, it hurt a bit (the next few hundred miles would be a real bitch-kitty) and he had no real way to tell if it was working (not that he cared to test it) but he figured he'd burn those bridges when he came to them. No use worrying over things that hadn't happened yet - and may never happen.

It was time to start over.

He dropped the empty Coke bottle in the recycle can beside the cola machine and ambled leisurely across the dusty street (which was quiet for midday - but that was smaller towns for ya') to the waiting machine that Birch had asked him to pick up, stopping for a moment to admire the sleek beauty of the classic vehicle, wondering how he had ever lucked into meeting Twig in the first place.

Maybe it was Fate. Maybe it _all_ was.

Maybe his calling Joshua, finding Birch on the road, Birch needing this gorgeous vehicle taken to the one place he'd never be found and giving him the courage (not just the means) to take the plunge and step away when he realized he could no longer hunt, no longer protect, no longer be the person he had always been raised to be - well...Fate was as good a way to explain it as any other way. Lord knows Winchester luck was usually _way_ worse than this - it was like he was being guided down a new path and the friend he had made along the way was his beacon.

It was all falling into place so neatly he had to stop and marvel about how easily it happened, even if it was the hardest thing he had ever had to do in two lifetimes.

He dug his cellphone out of his pocket, contemplating calling them both to tell him he was sorry, that he loved them, that they'd be okay now - but quashed the urge as soon as it rose, like he'd gotten used to doing the past few days. He wound up dropping the shiny new cell in the saddlebag beside his old wallet, thinking briefly that he would have to get rid of it, get rid of that last tie to Dean Winchester - but he shrugged that off too. Maybe one day soon, but not yet - he was still too new this life, maybe when he became more comfortable being Jon Samuel Smith, maybe then - but not yet.

He dropped one leg over the vintage 1963 Harley-Davidson Panhead, checking that the saddlebags were cinched tight and wincing when he fired her up as the motion pulled on his right pec, letting her warm up before turning her towards the Midwest and a new life as a civvie, everything inside telling him he had made the right choice even as the tat itched and burned - a reminder that sometimes what is gone may never completely _stay_ gone.

No matter how hard you wish for it.

**0-0-0**

_"You never finished that story," Sam said in his usual cryptic way, eyes bleeding tired pain and cold, as Dean got him settled on the bed, moving to check the wraps around his left leg._

_"Yeah? What story? Lift your leg a bit - we need to keep it elevated. It may have only nicked you, but it did a damn good job of it - no infection so far though, so you might actually get away with a few days rest there, Samantha." Dean fussed, arranging pillows from his own bed to put under Sam's knee, hands quick, efficient and sure as they went about the automatic task of fixing his brother._

_"The one," Sam said thickly, swallowing around the dryness in his throat as the painkillers kicked in. "The one about the dragon and the princess - the one you were telling after we did laps that time in Michigan...you know when I screwed up on that tracking thing that Dad was testing me on."_

_Dean paused for a moment, thinking back and smiled, shaking his head as he got Sam a bottle of water from the mini-fridge for his parched throat._

_"Drink up, Sammy - need the liquids," he said softly, half chuckling at the memory. They had tromped through the undergrowth, racing each other and catcalling as they went, though Sam had pulled easily ahead, his legs already longer by that time. When he had asked for a story as a victory prize Dean had been surprised - it had been a long time since Sammy had wanted a story, so he made one upon the fly as they staggered back home again, the promise of water and ice cream calling them to go faster than Dean could tell the tale._

_"Thought you had forgotten all about that," Dean said, tucking a blanket up around Sam's shoulders. "It was nice...to tell you a story again, I mean -"_

_"Tell me a story now - finish that one," Sam asked breathlessly, shifting to get more comfortable. "C'mon, please?"_

_"Sammy -"_

_"It's_ Sam _-"_

_"That right there says you're too big for fairy-tales and whoopers...besides, I'm tired, man and we got a long drive tomorrow."_

_"Please, Dean? I'll even let you call me Sammy for a week -"_

_"Sam..."_

_"_Please_?" He turned on the defenseless look he knew Dean could never resist and put it up full blast, not an ounce of shame in him. He was tired, he was hurt and he deserved a story for old time's sake, knowing that Dean's voice in storyteller mode would distract him from his bum leg and would get him to sleep with no nightmares to plague him._

_"Ohh, alright," Dean sighed, smile showing that he was enjoying the idea as much as Sam while he settled himself in 'story' position, butt planted on the other side of Sam's bed, legs curled Indian-style as he leaned back against the headboard._

_He started the tale about where he had left off (something that Sam always found amazing, even if slightly creepy) and before Sam knew it, the dragon was dead, the princess was saved, and the knight had gotten the girl (and the kingdom to boot)._

_"Thanks, Dean," he said sleepily when Dean had finished, leaning his head into his brother's side, neither noticing as Dean let his hand drift through Sam's hair, a petting gesture that had often soothed him when he was ill or had nightmares when he was small. "You...you always tell the best stories."_

_"Goodnight, Sammy," Dean replied, smiling gently as he tucked him in, even dropping a kiss in the tangle of hair on the top of his head. "Get some sleep, little bro'."_

_"I wish every tale had a happy ending like that," Sam murmured, already halfway to sleep as his brother had ordered._

_"Me too," Dean whispered back, settling into his own bed. "Too few of them do."_

_"Will_ we _have a happy ending, Dean?" was the slurred question._

_"I don't know Sam, I hope so," Dean replied in the dark, a distant chill washing over him as he thought about the many things that could go wrong, the thousands of things that had gone wrong before and led them straight to here. "But I also hope it will be a long time before we find out, dude." _

_His only answer was a soft snore from Sam's bed and he smiled again, pulling the blankets up to his chin as he burrowed into the lone pillow he had left._

_"A_ really _long time."_

**0-0-0**

**That same day, in Sioux Falls, South Dakota...**

"I've called everywhere, Sam - if Dean made any contact with our friends, hell, with any _hunter_ - they ain't tellin'. But the vibe I'm getting is that no one knows squat - though they are all keeping an eye out for him."

"Thanks, Bobby," Sam sighed, hunching back over the laptop. He was really grateful that Bobby hadn't told him to drop it, to leave Dean alone, to forget it and find something to do until he returned - especially after his brother's last volley over the phone before he had lost him again.

Anyone else would have told him to take that call for what it was and quit looking. Hell, anyone else would have drop-kicked Sam to the curb after the confession he had made to how he had been spending his time with a demon honing his super-powers...with blood no less. But not Bobby - nope. Seemed that the harder Sam pushed, the harder Bobby pushed back. They had gotten into a fight less than twelve hours before over the whole mess, which ended with Bobby bellowing about how he wasn't going to lose them both at once, he'd go to Hell his _ownself_ first - and had Sam picking up the phone and telling Ruby to go fuck herself.

Then again, Ruby had been scarce of late, anyway - seemed having a powerful angel that was inclined to drop in when you least expected it gave her the heebie-jeebies. It made Sam sad that he would have to stop using his new-found power (unless he found another way besides drinking demon blood - had no idea what had possessed him to do that in the first place, no pun intended), but he was with the two best people on the planet to help him through it - never-mind that one of those 'people' was an Angel of the Lord. If there was a way to utilize it without tainting his soul, he'd go back to exorcising demons that way, but until then, he'd have to use good old fashioned now-how, the knife (if he was left without a choice) and the new tricks Castiel had taught him.

And speaking of the angel, he had taken some getting used to over the last few days. He was reluctant to be around Sam at first, wary - but as the blood that Ruby gave him had run out of his system, Castiel was more inclined to hang around, intoning that he was there because of the charge laid upon him and no other reason. Though Bobby called bullshit on that.

"He likes us." The older hunter had shrugged. "He probably doesn't know why - hell, _I_ don't know why! But I'm kinda getting used to that winged asshole hanging around. He may not be Dean, but he's got power to back us up - and he don't hardly eat much either."

A pretty good joke since Castiel didn't eat anything at all...or sleep...or learn that you couldn't stand right on top of a person when you appear out of nowhere - though Sam got the raw end of that deal the last time the angel had snuck up on him. He made a mental note that hitting an angel wasn't good for your hand before spending the next two hours icing it, grumbling good-naturedly as Bobby laughed himself sick over it.

But while they all spent time getting used to each other, they also kept a lookout for Dean and where he may have disappeared to, Bobby's house being the safe haven for all three of them the last three days while they searched. Bobby's only insistence was that Sam rest now and again, and he felt guilty when he realized he had gotten more sleep the past few days than he had gotten the last few _months_ at least. But it was good - he felt better, more awake. And it left his head clear while he puzzled out Dean's possible actions, assisted by Bobby's insights and Castiel's ever-widening grid search for his brother.

He had that feeling though, that today was the make or break point. It was now or never - and while his gut usually didn't tell him squat like Dean's did for him, he had to do his damnedest to ignore the pit that had opened in it when he had woken up that morning. Something deep inside warned him that he might not get the best news ever - and he spent all morning buried in frantic research, while trying to prepare himself at the same time for failure. That was a hard teeter-totter to balance on, but he had managed so far, Bobby helping when he could and keeping him in an endless supply of coffee, some instinct telling the older man the same thing Sam's gut was telling him. 

Bobby eventually plunked down in a chair beside him, all of his contacts exhausted and all of his locator spells failing him to see if he could help Sam in some way, _any_ way - because he'd go crazy doing nothing while he waited for answers.

"Whaddya got so far?" he asked, almost half afraid of the answer, but knowing that Sam talking it out might help, even if it was only just a little.

"So far - a whole lotta nothing on one end and way too much on the other," Sam replied - and damn he could do a good John imitation when he put his mind to it.

"How'd'ya mean, son - I don't follow."

"Well," Sam said, fingers still flying over the keys as he pulled up record after record to be scrutinized to death while he talked. "So far, his credit card trail ends where Castiel said he had last found him and all of his P.O. Boxes have been shut down from an unknown location, which means he probably used a payphone. Rare as they are, there are still quite a few of those scattered all over, but they usually aren't tracked which leads us to a dead end there. Also, his credit cards have been shut off, but only after large amounts of money were pulled - and since they've been shut down, the company is reluctant to tell me anything about where the money was pulled from for the next few days. Seems Dean claimed they were stolen right before he shut down the accounts, so that's also a bust. His cellphone went offline, account closed right about the same time that he shut down his mail-drops, but I can't find a record of him getting a new one. If he did, he went with a different company, different name and he either paid cash, or paid with a card that I don't know about. The only thing I had left to track him with was his Busty Asian Beauties subscription - and that lapsed while he...while he was gone - and he never reactivated it. Probably didn't think about it to be honest."

Sam stopped long enough to take a sip of coffee and squint at two open windows on the laptop before shutting them down and opening two new ones.

"All mail was sent Next Day Air to an undisclosed location - which means he sent it private mail - but I have a funny feeling that if I do track it, the drop that it went to will also be gone." He heaved a sigh and ran both hands through his hair, stopping to yank on a few strands before letting his arms collapse again, hands falling uselessly into his lap, shoulders rippling in a shrug. "Basically, if Castiel can't come up with his location, we're fucked. I got...I got nothin' over here."

"Dammit," Bobby breathed, face a mask of disappointment and hurt. "I'm sorry, Sam..."

"Me too, Uncle Bobby - guess all we can really do now is wait and you know -"

"- how much you hate waiting, believe me kiddo, I know," Bobby replied, trying for an encouraging smile. He heaved to his feet, getting ready to head to the kitchen to make more coffee while they waited for the angel to blip in god knows when, as Sam's soft voice stopped him in mid-stride.

"I'm sorry, Bobby - that he...that he didn't call you, give you a chance to say..." Sam shrugged again in a helpless gesture, looking half-sorry he had said anything, but knowing in that instinctive Sam way what Bobby was thinking - and what needed to be said about it. "If he'd've had a chance, you know how would have...I'm sorry, if I hadn't gotten so pissed at him, you might have gotten a chance to talk him home. You know he respects you, hell, we both love you though he'd never say it. I'm just sorry that I ruined that chance for you."

"Oh, Sam," Bobby sighed, looking old for the first time since Dean's death. He crossed back across the room and pulled Sam out of his chair and into a crushing hug, patting his back awkwardly as he pulled away.

"Think we both needed that," he half remarked to himself. "Sam - this was in no way your fault. Hell, Dean knows damn well how to push your buttons and if he couldn't get you one way, he'd've just tried for another, can't be helped, son. I wish I had gotten a chance to talk to him, too - tell him...well tell him a manner of things, but we won't ever know if my talking to him would have made things worse or better. Sometimes...sometimes things work out a certain way for a reason. I'm just glad to have you here, boy - I...I missed you, you know that? Now, how about some coffee before I start growin' girl parts, huh? Swear havin' you around! Soon I'll be throwing tea parties and shit like that."

Sam laughed at Bobby's gruff deflection, warmed by his words just because they came from Bobby, who wasn't known for being the best with them (kind of like his brother). He leaned back in his chair, half tempted to either close the laptop or get more eyestrain crammed in on it within the next few minutes, but let it lie, connection blinking merrily as he finished his coffee. He knew any further efforts would just be him chasing his tail until he was frustrated, so he was resolved to give himself a few minutes away from it - to clear his head if nothing else.

Of course, that would be the exact time Castiel decided to pop in, his features an odd mixture of thunderous, grim and bewildered.

"Castiel? Are you -" Sam started, ass halfway out of his chair before he could think on it.

"I can't find him," Castiel intoned, shifting his feet in - was that nervousness? Damn - if so that was very much on the not-good scale. Sam's gut rumbled a warning at him and he snapped his eyes to Bobby, who entered the room with a fresh coffee cup, eyes drawn immediately to the angel in their midst.

"What's goin' on?" Bobby asked, taking note of the paleness of Sam's face and the stoniness radiating from Castiel. "What happened?"

"I can't find him -"

"So? That's what we've all been busy working on -"

"No," the angel replied impatiently, almost panicked. "I mean I can't _find_ him - my...my Mark, my connection to it - it...it has been severed, I feel..."

"_Shit_," Bobby gritted, getting a chair and shoving it underneath Castiel as he collapsed towards the floor. "Well - _that's_ not good."

"I don't," Castiel gasped, sounding wounded. "This has never happened to me before, I feel..._lost_ - like I've _lost_ something, I'm not used to..."

Bobby gripped his shoulder, glancing up into Sam's stricken face, half afraid to see defeat in his eyes, but surprised when all he saw was determination and a new fire flaring to life. He knelt down towards Castiel, putting one hand on the angel's other shoulder, willing him to draw strength from them both.

"I'm sorry, Cas," he began, stilling at the startled look on the angel's face before realizing he had slipped up. Before he could say anything, wonder crept into those blue eyes and a hesitant smile pulled at Castiel's lips, one hand coming up to pat at Sam's arm.

"He..._he_ called me that," Castiel explained. "I did not know what to make of it at the time, but...I like it."

"Okay," Sam grinned. "Cas it is, then... Are you - are you going to be okay?"

"Yes, Sam," Castiel replied, looking a little less grim and a little calmer. "It is just..._unsettling_ to me - it feels like what being cut off from my brothers and sisters would feel like - empty...a void where something _should_ be, but is not. I will...I will be fine - it will just take a while to get used to."

"Okay," Sam breathed. "Okay - I'm sorry that it has happened. I'm sorry that it hurts - but...do you know _why_ it would happen?"

Bobby glanced at Sam sharply, knowing where he was headed, even if he didn't know how they were going to get there.

"No," Castiel replied, sitting up straighter. "I have no idea why - or _how_ - such a connection would be severed. This indicates strong magick indeed."

"D'ya think Dean -" Bobby started.

"I don't know," Sam mused, brow furrowed in concentration. "But this now makes it ten times harder to find him - and we were already batting zero before Cas showed up."

He noted how the angel smiled faintly at the nickname, even as he looked troubled.

"Wait - you are saying that you have been unsuccessful as well?"

"Yup," Bobby cut in, sighing as he moved to drag a chair over to sit down himself, Sam having already reclaimed the seat in front of the laptop. "We were waiting on you to come back and give us something to go on."

"I am...sorry," Castiel said, shoulder slumped, face downcast. "I should not have failed you."

"Hey, _hey_," Sam said, glancing at Bobby as he spoke. "Don't talk like that - it's no one's fault, okay? Just means, it will be...a little harder, that's all."

"Like a needle in a really, _really_ big stack of needles," Bobby commented dryly.

"Well, either way," Sam replied, lips twisting in a wry and determined grin, eyes shining with that peculiar light they got when he was challenged. "I know _I_ don't have anything pressing to do - how about you guys?"

At the head shakes from Bobby and Castiel both, he grinned, happy when they relaxed and smiled back in response. That was more like it.

"Well, seeing as how none of us have anything better to do - we got a houseful of books, a hunter that has been around the block, an ex-demon-blood junkie and an angel on our shoulders, to me that tells us one thing."

"And what may that be?"Castiel queried, looking at the two of them as they grinned back at him.

"That means," Bobby started, looking as determined as Sam. They were all in this together, all the way no matter what it took - there was no going back now. "It means, my angelic friend, that we got work to do..."

**0-0-0**

**Three Months Later (in a small town in Montana)...**

****Jonathon Samuel Smith jumped gracefully out of the Ford F-150 Super Duty, dusting off his jeans as he made his way towards the door of Engelhart's Feed and Grain, stretching his sore back muscles as he walked, rubbing absently at one hip. Last night had been a doozy, no doubt.

He'd had to help Thomas with a mare while she was birthing, the foal having gotten caught halfway out putting both mama and baby in trouble. He'd had first watch when it started and had called his boss immediately, unsure of what to do, but willing to help if it was needed. Thomas had shown him the ropes and he'd helped deliver his first foal into the world, and he was proud that he had done so, though he had been scared the whole time.

"Always happens like that," Thomas had told him after it was over and they were watching mother and child sleep together, both exhausted from the fight. "You get so damned scared that you'll do something wrong, accidentally kill one or the other - if not _both_ - but they'll die sure as hell if you don't help, so...you just roll up your sleeves and get to it."

"You still get scared?" Dean/Jon had asked, amazed.

"Hell _yeah_, I do! Love these damned animals. I'd hate to think of hurting a one of them, much less having them die just 'cause I was trying to help."

"Have you?"

"Lost one? Not yet - not like _that_ anyway...and thanks to you, I've got another win to add to my tally," Thomas replied, grinning and clapping him on the shoulder. They both watched the newborn and mother half the night, awed and content until dawn broke over the horizon, when Thomas sent him hustling off to bed.

Then again, he had only gotten about two hours before he was up again, chores needing to be done - but he didn't regret that time spent one bit. It was worth shuffling through the day like a zombie - he got to help bring a new life into the world and the euphoria lasted most of the day, keeping him moving even when Thomas protested that he would give him the day off.

"Nahhh - I'd just get lazy then," he had replied, before offering to make his weekly run to the feed store over Thomas' protests. "Part of my routine, I'd be lost without it."

So here he was just like every Thursday, list in his pocket for what the ranch required, though by now, he really didn't need it (knowing everything they had to have by heart, maybe even better than Thomas did) but carrying it all the same. He had made one stop on his way to the store, requesting permission and getting an incredulous 'yes' from Thomas who said he could go ahead and take the rest of the damned day off from there if he'd like. But Jon just grinned back at him and said he'd be back before four, like always, read to help round up the horses to the barn.

He had stopped by his little house on the property and grabbed his old wallet, shoving it into his jean-jacket's inner pocket and he made his way back to the truck, feeling sad for a moment, but too happy to feel that way for long. He knew it was time. His old life (though it still haunted him and made him long for his family at night) was gone, it was as far in the past as it was ever going to be. It was time to let it go completely.

He made his purchases and helped Englehart Jr (Dallas - though he preferred just Englehart) lug everything out to the truck, chatting about the foal he had helped deliver the night before and the mare that was getting ready to foal next week. He got everything in the truck bed and slammed the tailgate shut, chatting for a few minutes longer before clapping Englehart on the back and wishing him a good day, loitering until the man went back inside the store.

Feeling guilty (and knowing perfectly well why, but choosing to ignore it anyway) he pulled the battered leather catch-all out of his inner pocket, reflecting that he'd carried this in his back pocket since the age of eleven, a hand-me-down from Dad (so Lord knows how old it really was) and it had sat innocuous and taken for granted, in his back pocket for many, many years getting steadily more and more worn as time rolled by, the insides as well as the outsides soft and thin from use.

He flipped it open and studied his driver's license (way out of date, but with his original name on it) - where it had sat in its place of honor since he had first gotten it, before years and law troubles had forced him to make his own, his original still sitting in that little clear slot (well, less clear now than it had been) declaring to all and sundry that Dean Winchester was able to drive a standard motorized vehicle. He had gotten the Impala (a gift from Dad though he still drove it for hunts now and again) the same day he had received his license and he had cherished both heart and soul. Beyond and behind the license, various cards from businesses and pieces of paper with phone numbers written in feminine hand were two photos, both creased and yellow from handling and time and he pulled them out to look at them, wishing that things were different, even if for a _moment_.

Wishing he could be Dean Winchester again.

He shrugged it off, sad smile pulling at one corner of his mouth as he tucked the photos back in behind his old driver's license, folding the wallet closed again and stopping to kiss one corner as he walked to the trashcan outside the store. He pondered pulling out the photos, already missing the sight of Mom and Dad and Baby Sammy, missing the photo of him and Sam waiting outside another anonymous school (Catcherville High) for Dad to pick them up, arms slung over each other's shoulders, sharing a private capture done by an enthusiastic newsletter photographer, who had been more than happy to give Dean a copy, as long as he agreed to take her to a movie that night. Of course, they had moved on that same day, so the movie never happened - but it would have been nice to take her.

He longed to open the wallet back up and snatch everything out before tossing it away.

Then he longed to keep the wallet itself, the worn brown leather almost a friend after all these years - he wanted to keep them _all _though he knew he couldn't - though he knew he _shouldn't_.

With a sad twinge that started deep in his chest and spread like an ache all through his bones (making his small smile falter just a bit at the corners of his lips) he dropped the wallet at the top of the bin, pulling some papers over it to hide the brown leather from sight. It only took a minute, but it felt like a lifetime as he took several breaths, willing himself to walk away, to leave it behind. This was the last step, the last tie - and he had to let it go.

After what felt like an eternity, Jonathon Samuel Smith got back into his boss' truck and pulled away from the feed-store, leaving Dean Winchester and everything he once was sitting halfway down a wire trashcan, waiting for pick up the next day - his heart heavy but his mind at ease as he headed back to his new life, the future opening up even as the past closed behind him.

From the corner of Englehart's Feed and Grain, a shadow slipped towards the front of the store, eyes concentrated on the retreating tail-lights of the F-150 as they dwindled to pinpricks in the distance. One they were gone, a calloused hand, nails bitten to the quick, dipped into the waste bin, pulling out the last possession of one Dean Winchester, flipping it open to the once coveted driver's license inside before flipping it closed again.

A smile formed beneath the scraggly blonde hair and manic green eyes of the stranger, who stuck the wallet into his own back pocket as if it belonged there, melting back the way he had come, no one the wiser for him having been there at all. Over the upcoming months, he would get to know Dean Winchester as if the man was his brother - and what he did with that information, well...he'd see what he would see, wouldn't he?

The next year would be interesting..._very_ interesting indeed.

_**~Finis~**_


End file.
